Dimitrie Cantemir” Christian University

“DIMITRIE CANTEMIR” CHRISTIAN UNIVERSITY

FACULTY OF FOREIGN LANGUAGES AND LITERATURES

ANNALS OF “DIMITRIE CANTEMIR” CHRISTIAN UNIVERSITY

LINGUISTICS, LITERATURE AND METHODOLOGY OF TEACHING

VOLUME XVI No.1/2016

This journal is included in IDB SCIPIO

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ISSN 2065 – 0868 ISSN-L 2065 - 0868

Each author is responsible for the originality of his article and the fact that it has not been previously published.

“DIMITRIE CANTEMIR” CHRISTIAN UNIVERSITY FACULTY OF FOREIGN LANGUAGES AND LITERATURES

ANNALS

“DIMITRIE CANTEMIR”

CHRISTIAN UNIVERSITY

LINGUISTICS, LITERATURE AND METHODOLOGY OF TEACHING

VOLUME XVI No.1/2016

CONTENTS

PROCEEDINGS OF THE THIRD INTERNATIONAL CONFERENCE

JAPAN: PRE-MODERN, MODERN AND CONTEMPORARY. A RETURN TRIP FROM THE EAST TO THE WEST. LEARNING IN, ABOUT AND FROM JAPAN 9-11 September 2015

I. LITERARY STUDIES

Yasusuke Oura: Fiction and fictionality in Japanese culture: shishōsetsu (i-novel) and “otaku” culture……………………………………………8

Tomoe Nakamura, Akihiro Kubo, Manabu Kawada: Description and point of view in the modern Japanese novel: Iwano Hōmei’s theoretical discourse…………………………………………………………………………23

Chien Hui Chuang: A Study of 'Shanghai'Magazine, and its Proponents, Focusing on its Literary Column……………………………………………………….42

Junko Abe: Representation of tamashii in Reflections on Contemporary Tales by Matsutani Miyoko……………………………………………………………….54

Sungkook Kang: Western Civilization as Exhibited in a Sino-Japanese Poem from the Edo Period: An Analysis of Arai Hakuseki’s “The Alarm Clock”………………………………………………………………………………………………68

II. LANGUAGE STUDIES

Andreea Sion: Japanese words used in Romania…………………………….83

Júlia Somodi: Interpersonal Relations in Source Text and Target Text in the Light of the Translation of Appelatives……………………………………..95

III. CULTURAL STUDIES

Brendan Le Roux: Was Lafcadio Hearn’s Prophecy about Japanese Migrants in Guadeloupe Right? The Background of the 1895 Japanese Workers’s Labour Movement…………………………………………………………..112

Diana Tihan: Japanese Approaches to the Challenges of Ageing- Lessons for Romania………………………………………………………………………132

Raluca Nagy, Horea Sibișteanu: The Taming of the Earthquake. Can Romania Learn from Japan?...... 143

Magdalena Ciubăncan: A Rose by Any other Name is Still a Rose…or Is It? On Gender Roles in Contemporary Japan……………………………………160

Angela Drăgan: Japan’s Image in the Romanian Mass-Media in the First Half of the 20th Century…………………………………………………………..169

Irina Holca: Romania and Japan: Real and Imaginary Encounters at the Turn of the 20th Century…………………………………………………………….178

Maria Grăjdian: Identity in Fragments. Kanno Yōko, Counter- Orientalism and Eclectic Nostalgias in Anime Soundtracks...... 191

Oana Loredana Scoruș: A Cultural Interpretation of the Features of a Japanese Garden……………………………………………………………………………212

Saida Khalmirzaeva: Yuriwaka: On the Possible Route of the Story’s Transmission…………………………………………………………………………………230

Rieko Kamei-Dyche: Depicting Authority: The Saionji Family and Cultural Capital in the early Medieval Japanese Court……………………..251

Andrew T. Kamei-Dyche: Mapping the Intellectual Landscape: Bookstores and the Book towns in the Late Era…………………………………267

Carmen Săpunaru Tămaș: From Conception to Adulthood-Children’s Rites of Passage in Japanese Society………………………………………………..277

Adrian Ovidiu Tămaș, Carmen Săpunaru Tămaș: A Romanian Community in Ōsaka: A Case Study of Class Discrimination in Two Languages……………………………………………………………………………………..290

LITERARY STUDIES

FICTION AND FICTIONALITY IN JAPANESE CULTURE: SHISHŌSETSU (I-NOVEL) AND “OTAKU” CULTURE

Yasusuke OURA

Abstract: Fiction and fictionality—their features and uses—can provide numerous insights into a culture. The issues they raise also offer a fertile ground for comparative studies. In the case of Japanese culture, the shishōsetsu (I- novel), often considered the representative genre of modern Japanese literature, uses a special type of fictionality, which is one of its definitory features. Oversimplifying the facts, we could say that it stands at the intersection of the study of Japanese culture and theory of fiction. In Japan, only few thinkers have analysed the shishōsetsu from this standpoint; for example, Itō Sei and Maruyama Masao, soon after the end of the Second World War, pointed out the unique type of fictionality present in the shishōsetsu, and connected it to a wider argument about the Japanese cultural background and mentality. This talk introduces the ideas of Itō and Maruyama, and attempts to reconsider the theoretical implications of this “Japanese-style fiction” from a present-day perspective. Another topic I tackle is the so-called “otaku culture”, especially the production and consumption of narratives it involves, often discussed in terms of “narrative consumption”, nijisōsaku (derivative work), etc. The phenomenon is not limited to literature, encompassing many subculture genres: manga, anime, video games, etc. The “otaku culture” in this sense, when we consider it from the point of view of fictionality, seems to contrast strangely with the shishōsetsu: while the latter is a quasi-autobiographical genre, recounting the author’s everyday experiences, the former is characterised by a sort of panfictionalism, a key concept of “postmodern” culture. Nevertheless, both are presumed to be Japanese. How can we explain this? That is the question I address in concluding my talk. Keywords: shishōsetsu, otaku, fiction, narrative, derivative work

INTRODUCTION

Fiction and fictionality — their features and uses — can provide numerous insights into a culture. Fiction is a social institution. If the term “institution” is an exaggeration, then it is at least a social agreement or convention. While there might still be some discussion over whether fiction is something Western in nature, it is an undoubted fact that it has not existed all over the world in all ages in the same fashion. It is said that even in the West, the concept of fiction

 Professor, Institute for Research in Humanities, Kyoto University

8 as we know it today — i.e., something not designed to deceive people and clearly distinguished from lies — began to take root only after the Renaissance. This seemingly simple attitude of producing and receiving fiction as fiction is by no means obvious. I will not go into details here, but it is evident that a society’s degree of permissiveness towards fiction varies significantly depending on the age and the cultural background. In the West, the discourse praising the cognitive value and social benefits of fiction, as seen with Aristotle, and the argument that fiction is harmful, which was started by Plato, have coexisted throughout the ages in different forms. For example, the novel as a genre has enjoyed tremendous popularity since its inception, while at the same time it has been an easy target of the argument that fiction is harmful, i.e., “fiction has a corrupting influence on women and young people”. On the other hand, recent events, such as members of the Islamic community calling for the death of Salman Rushdie for his Satanic Verses, the incident related to the satirical Muhammad cartoons published by a Danish newspaper, and the terror attack on Charlie Hebdo in France, can be seen, at least in a sense, as manifestations of intolerance to fiction, backed up by cultural differences. Needless to say, the issue is very delicate in areas connected to religion and discrimination. In some cases, fiction can be the source of terrorism and diplomatic problems. Anyway, I repeat, fiction and fictionality — their features and uses — can provide numerous insights into a culture. The issues they raise also offer a fertile ground for comparative studies1. Shishōsetsu, one of the topics I am going to focus on, is a type of novel that reached its peak in the 1910s and the 1920s, i.e., from the end of the Meiji period to the beginning of the Shōwa period, and continued to be pursued actively even after World War II. It has long been considered the typical example of modern Japanese novel, both with a positive and negative connotation, by Japanese critics and foreign scholars who study Japanese literature alike. One of the main distinguishing features of the shishōsetsu is its unique fictionality. On the other hand, “otaku culture” is a term used to refer to a part of the Japanese subculture that has developed since the 1980s, as well as the behavior of young people who get absorbed in it. Since “otaku” is now an international word, I guess that many people are familiar with what “otaku culture” refers to, as it has become known worldwide and is actually much more popular than the shishōsetsu. “Otaku culture” is also related to the problem of fiction through its unique conception of the narrative. Thinking about shishōsetsu and “otaku culture” at the intersection of the studies on Japanese culture and those about fiction may sound a little too ambitious, but this is the topic of my talk today. Please understand that, due to the time constraints, I might not be able to go into specifics. Before continuing to the main discussion, let me add one thing. This April, we published an anthology of Japanese literary theories, the fruit of a joint study I conducted over the past four years at the Institute for Research in Humanities, Kyoto University. The book is titled Literary Theories in Japan:

1 Cf. Anne Duprat & Françoise Lavocat eds., Fiction et Cultures, coll. « Poétiques comparatistes », Société française de littérature générale et comparée, 2010.

9 An Anthology (beta version) and includes excerpts from materials related to literary theories written by Japanese literati after the Meiji period; they are organized by theme, and have added commentaries. This work is the result of collaboration among experts on Western theories and scholars who study Japanese literature, and, in this sense, I think that it is very unique. The reason we call it “beta version” is that we want to ask our colleagues to use it in class and let us know what they think about the usability of the contents; based on their opinion, we want to create a final version. In fact, many of the materials that I will use in this talk are partially included in the Anthology, and I also refer to some of the commentaries therein. Thus, in a sense, my talk today is a way of utilizing this book.

I. Shishōsetsu and the Problems of Fiction I-1. What is Shishōsetsu? Now, let us go into the main discussion. As some people may not be familiar with the term “shishōsetsu”, first I would like to briefly explain what it is. As the name suggests, shishōsetsu is a novel about the “I”. In Japanese, it is also called “watakushishōsetsu”, and is translated as “I-novel” or “autobiographical novel” in English. Foreign scholars often use the term “shishōsetsu” as such, without translating it. In this type of novel, the main character serves as the narrator in some cases but not in all (the narration can be either in the first or third person). Either way, he is often supposed to be a writer, more or less professional, and can be identified with the author himself or herself. It may be more appropriate to say that the shishōsetsu is produced and read on the basis of an unspoken understanding or a reading convention that the main character/narrator is the author of the novel. Among early shishōsetsu writers are Shimazaki Tōson, Tayama Katai, Tokuda Shūsei, Masamune Hakuchō, Chikamatsu Shūkō, Kasai Zenzō, etc. The peak of the genre’s popularity, as mentioned earlier, was attained in the 1910s and the 1920s, but it has managed to survive and thrive even after this period. From the perspective of literary history, Japan experienced two literary movements during the mid-1920s, “New Sensationalist School (shinkankakuha 新感覚派)” and “Proletarian Literature,” both of which, however, lasted for only ten years and failed to drive away the shishōsetsu. Ironically, the proletarian writers, who had vehemently opposed shishōsetsu, began to write this type of novel after their conversion, i. e., after renouncing their Marxist credo. From this fact alone, we can see how deeply-rooted shishōsetsu is as a literary trend. Indeed, there have been numerous writers who wrote novels that can be called shishōsetsu. Terada Tōru noted in 1950, “among the writers who emerged after the Meiji Restoration, Natsume Sōseki, Kōda Rohan, and Izumi Kyōka are the only ones who never wrote shishōsetsu”. In addition to Chikamatsu Shūkō and Kasai Zenzō, mentioned earlier, Shiga Naoya and Kamura Isota are often referred to as shishōsetsu writers. After the 1930s, there were many others, whose works were widely read, such as Kanbayashi Akatsuki, Dazai Osamu, Dan Kazuo, and Shimao Toshio. In fact, even today quite a few writers call themselves “shishōsetsu writers”, such as Kurumatani Chōkitsu, Saeki Kazumi,

10 Yū Miri, and Kenta Nishimura, and have succeeded in acquiring a certain number of readers. While Murakami Haruki’s novels are certainly not shishōsetsu, Hibana, written by comedian Matayoshi Naoki, which was highly publicized for winning the Akutagawa Prize this year (2015) is, in my opinion, a kind of shishōsetsu. Time and again, shishōsetsu has indeed attracted a fair amount of criticism, but we must not forget that many of the novels counted among the masterpieces of modern Japanese literature were also shishōsetsu.

I-2. “Strange” Novel: Unique Fictionality and the Absence of Plot So far, we could call this a textbook description of the shishōsetsu; let me now move on to discussing the characteristics of this genre as fiction. Shishōsetsu is a strange type of novel. Foreigners probably understand this “strangeness” better; it is explained well in Edward Fowler’s book on shishōsetsu2. First, we cannot be sure whether shishōsetsu is a work of fiction or an autobiography. It is not a fictional story as those often seen in the West, but it is also not proclaimed as an autobiography. In terms of genre, shishōsetsu is categorized as a novel, but readers read it as the autobiography of the author. This “twist” makes for a very unique kind of fictionality. One more thing: shishōsetsu does not have a plot. It does not have an ending. When reading shishōsetsu, we cannot quite understand what the “point” is in the story. This is not a problem inherent only to shishōsetsu; for example, Akutagawa Ryūnosuke and Tanizaki Junichirō got into a debate over the plot of the novel in the magazine Kaizō (『改造』) in 1927. As mentioned in their debate, too, the so- called popular novels generally place emphasis on plot and action, which is rarely seen in so-called pure literature. This, I think, is a phenomenon commonly encountered in all cultures to a certain extent (for example, one can never say that Beckett’s novels are plot-driven). Nonetheless, the absence of plot in shishōsetsu stands out. Those who favor the shishōsetsu talk about its “purity”, its emphasis on “feelings” and “lyricism”—features which are also related to the absence of plot. Some shishōsetsu write on and on about the agonizing exchange with a geisha girl that the character has fallen in love with. Others describe the details of a life of poverty, debt, and the struggle with illness. In one short story, the hero-narrator goes to a bookstore and leaves a lemon on a stack of books, imagining it was a bomb: nothing more, or almost. In another one, the hero goes to a hot spring resort for recuperation and writes about being lost in thought while observing the life of bees, mice, newts, and brown frogs during a walk. Love affairs, poverty, illness, and small animals seem to be the four major themes of shishōsetsu. And there is certainly no definite plot and no ending. In a good sense, reading shishōsetsu is like reading a poem or a well-written essay; in a bad sense, it is like reading about the author’s daily life trivia. I recently read an interesting book titled How to Write Best Selling Fiction (1981), authored by Dean R. Koontz, who is a “famous modern horror writer, along with Steven King” (it taught me a lot more than boring research books). This volume is meant to teach you how to write bestselling novels. The author

2 Edward Fowler, The Rhetoric of Confession, Univ. of California Press, 1988.

11 says, “There is nothing stranger in the world than a novel without a plot. After all, the plot is one of the most important factors in a novel”. This of course comes from Koontz’s stance, which is to encourage people to write high-quality entertainment novels, but I believe it is a very common perception about the novel in the West. In light of this, shishōsetsu is the “strangest” novel indeed.

I-3. Itō Sei The standpoint of seeing shishōsetsu as one of the objects of fiction theory has not been widely shared in Japan. From the 1920s and up until after the Second World War, numerous theories on the shishōsetsu were developed; a definition was given to the genre, in contrast with Russian and French realistic novels (“true novels (honkaku shōsetsu 本格小説)”); while its “purity” and “lyricism” were praised by some, as mentioned earlier, it was also considered an example of failure in the importation of Western naturalism. It was also said that the “ego” expressed in shishōsetsu was feudalistic and premodern, that it was not the “socialized ego” seen in the West. From the beginning, the arguments over shishōsetsu no doubt followed the logic of a “Japan versus the West” discourse. On the other hand, it is also true that people emphasized that shishōsetsu was a “raw” and direct portrayal of the real lives of the authors; the fact that shishōsetsu opposes the use of technique and imagination and dislikes “artifacts (tsukurimono つくりもの)” or “made-up things (koshiraemono 拵えもの)” was frequently pointed out, although these are not tendencies seen only in this genre. However, I believe that very few people thought that shishōsetsu was strange as fiction. This is probably because, while “art”, “literature”, or the “novel” were considered social institutions or conventions, fiction was not, and because people did not grasp the phenomenon of shishōsetsu as a whole at the level of fiction. Nevertheless, there were two exceptional thinkers, Itō Sei and Maruyama Masao, who, at a very early stage (immediately after World War II), discussed shishōsetsu as fundamentally related to the problem of fiction and, moreover, in connection to the unique relationships that Japanese people had with fiction. Here, I am going to refer to a series of papers3 that Itō Sei published in 1948, including “Inner Voice and Masquerade (Uchinarukoe to kasō 内なる声と仮装)” and “Runaway Slaves and Masked Gentlemen (Tōbōdorei to kamenshinshi 逃亡奴隷と仮面紳士)”, as well as the paper that Maruyama Masao published in 1949, “From Carnal Literature to Carnal Politics (Nikutaibungaku kara nikutaiseiji e 肉体文学から肉体政治へ)4”. Itō Sei was a literary critic and a novelist himself, and is also known for his involvement in a legal battle as the translator of D.H. Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover. There are two things that Itō achieved through the papers

3 All of them are included in Itō Sei, The Method of the Novel (Shōsetsu no hōhō『小説の方法』), Iwanami Bunko, 2006. 4 In Masao Maruyama, Thought and Behavior in Modern Japanese Politics, ed. Ivan Morris, trans. Barbara Ruch, Oxford University Press, 1963.

12 mentioned above. First, he defined all modern novels as “secret confessions” of the ego in conflict with society, in other words, as fundamentally confessional and autobiographical, and reinterpreted the modern Japanese novel, especially shishōsetsu, as the result of a process of continuity and dissociation with worldwide modern novels. I believe that Itō thus tried to “bring an end to” the arguments over shishōsetsu in his own way, while avoiding the traditional framework of “shishōsetsu versus true novel”, even if he did not say so directly. The second is related to the “dissociation” with the above-mentioned Western- style modern novels; Itō pointed out that modern Japanese novels have as their basis a society where the ego cannot establish itself and that, as a result, writers have a “hermit-like” attitude and deal with facts and fiction in a unique fashion. Itō said that modern Japanese writers tried to “recreate the methods used by experiential writers (i.e., writers who lay emphasis on direct experience and not abstract ideas), such as Chōmei, Saigyō, and Bashō, who were hermits of the old times”. Simply put, shishōsetsu is a descendant of Japanese classical essays, diaries, and travel writing. Itō argues that “invention” and “artificiality”, i.e. fiction, were unnecessary for those who placed themselves outside of society. This is of course related to the readers’ attitude. He adds, “In Japan, in principle, people are not moved profoundly by what is artificial, nor by what is abstracted and idealized. They are moved by implemented ideologies and what they can always confirm as facts.” On the other hand, according to Itō, Western writers create things while being inside of society, and because of this, they cannot express their egos unless they “disguise” themselves. This is because, in such a society where literati come together in salons and social circles, the issue of the ego is inseparably linked to issues of hypocrisy, deception, pride, honor, and self- esteem. Itō says that the Western writer must wear the “mask of a gentleman”. This “mask (kamen 仮面)” accurately describes the intrinsic aspect of fiction and is related to the Latin “persona” which means both a mask and a character in a novel. Itō rightfully notices, “Japanese people do not need masks. For them, fiction is nonsense, it is something created by people who go out in the evening dressed in tailcoats.”

I-4. Maruyama Masao Meanwhile, what did Maruyama Masao say? Unlike Itō, Maruyama specializes in the history of political thought. He is probably one of the greatest post-war political thinkers in Japan. “From Carnal Literature to Carnal Politics” is an extremely interesting paper, in which Maruyama discusses the ideas that flow through both the Japanese literature and politics using “fiction” as the keyword. He first emphasizes that in Japan “spirit is not separated from, and independent of, sensuous nature”. “Sensuous nature (kanseitekishizen 感性的自然)” means raw nature that appeals to the senses. In other words, “the spiritual dimension is not independent” and that is why literature is “carnal” in Japan. “Carnal literature” refers to novels that contain sex scenes. Maruyama writes that he was once reading a literary magazine and was shocked to find sex scenes in all of the seven or eight novels published there. He was concerned that if the

13 people read the same magazine in the future, they would think that “the Japanese around 1949 were obsessed with coitus all through the year.” The shishōsetsu is the same, he says, as “the writers’ minds are stuck on sensuous=natural datum like oysters on a rock, and they cannot let their imagination soar freely”. Later, Maruyama will call such tendency seen in the Japanese people “belief in actual feelings (jikkanshinkō 実感信仰)” in a famous book titled Japanese thought (Nippon no shisō『日本の思想』). The opposite of this “sensuous nature”, for Maruyama, is “fiction”; the latter is produced when the human spirit asserts itself upon the former—an intellectual structure, in other words. Fiction is “mediated reality”, not reality as it is. Maruyama says that is why fiction is a “work”. Let me quote him here, although the fragment is quite long: “In places where the spirit is not separated and independent of sensuous nature, the mediating power of the spirit is weak and fiction gets dragged around by a variety of different sensory experiences. Therefore, readers cannot enjoy fiction as fiction. That is why the issue of the models behind fictional stories arises, often leading to vociferous arguments. Actually, this uneasiness about made-up things may be the factor supporting “true-story” journalism, so abundant in Japan. That is the ultimate form of Japanese realism.” The opposite of this is what Maruyama calls “the belief in ‘fiction’”. He says, “At the bottom of such spirit is the attitude of attaching higher value to people’s intellectual activities, and their products, than to natural entities.” What is typical of Maruyama is the fact that he amplifies these ideas to build an argument about systems and organizations, turning them into the principles that explain historical and political changes in Europe and Japan. This is because, once established, the institution of fiction (or rather “legal fiction” in this case) will be substantialized, naturalized, and then absolutized over time. Maruyama says, “The essence of fiction is not an absolute existence with inherent values. It is a relative existence crafted to fulfill certain functions, for certain conveniences”, suggesting that “the spirit that believes in the meaning of fiction is the exact opposite of the spirit that absolutizes fiction; its object is to always prevent fiction from becoming an end in itself, and to relativize it”. He names the Japanese imperial system and German Nazism as examples of the absolutization of fiction. If we can call what Maruyama suggests here “the relativism of the spirit of fiction”, it would definitely be, I believe, a groundbreaking concept for the theory of fiction.

I-5. Reconsidering Shishōsetsu (1) ―― Making Light of the Contract As seen above, Itō and Maruyama discussed shishōsetsu, Japanese literature, culture in general, and politics, from the perspective of fiction, using their own unique and keen sense, from their respective standpoints. Theirs is a discussion on a very large scale, which can teach us a lot even today; their arguments bear quite a few similarities. Along the same lines, I would like to add the following two things regarding shishōsetsu from the perspective of contemporary theories of fiction. One is related to the concept of “contract”. I said earlier that fiction is a social institution or a convention. This can be rephrased as “contract”; it refers,

14 of course, to the contract between writers and their readers. We also call it a “promise”. As seen in Rousseau and Kant’s theories about the social contract, this concept supports the foundation of logocentric Western societies. Maruyama also considers “advanced fiction” as a contract to be the turning point that led to the departure from the feudal system and the beginning of the modern age. A contract is an instance of words functioning as “force”, undoubtedly one of the privileged fields where the “illocutionary force”, a key term in the theory of speech acts developed by John R. Searle et al, is exercised. In Searle’s theory, fiction is defined rather negatively, as the “pretention” of ordinary speech acts, but it is undeniable that today’s arguments over fiction owe a great deal to this approach. Philippe Lejeune’s concepts of “contrat de lecture” and “contrat autobiographique” are also closely linked with this. I think that shishōsetsu tends to make light of this contract, or have a low level of contract consciousness. In shishōsetsu, what formally guarantees the fictionality of a work, in many cases, is merely the difference in names between the main character and the author, or a certain explicit or implicit labeling of genre through paratext. The rest of the information is provided by the media surrounding the readers. Of course, we cannot put aside the existence of the literary circle called bundan (文壇). If we ignore the issue of personal pronoun (which is very complicated in Japanese) and combine the terms used by Searle and Lejeune, we may say that novels in general display a pretension of autobiographical contract, or, in positive terms, a fictional contract. But in the case of shishōsetsu, we have only a formal and extremely situation-dependent fictional contract. On a different note, this may be a phenomenon that has a lot in common with the so-called dangō (談合), bid-rigging, or price fixing, which was a type of Japanese public procurement system and received great attention at one point (the term “dangō” was also used internationally back then). Of course, it is true that these circumstances have significantly changed now, due to globalization.

I-6. Reconsidering Shishōsetsu (2) ―― the Metafictional Dimension One other point I would like to make refers to the metafictional dimension of shishōsetsu. This is not unrelated to the tendency to minimize the importance of the contract, discussed above. If we remember that the main character in shishōsetsu is a writer, it is no wonder that the novel contains metafictional elements. Metafiction in shishōsetsu is neither elaborately crafted, nor designed to create metafictional effects, but rather something that unintentionally reveals the fact that the author is the same as the hero (=narrator). For example, in a passage in Shiga Naoya’s “At Kinosaki (Kinosaki nite 城の崎にて)” the narrator who is also the main character mentions that he has written a short story titled “Han’s Crime (Han no hanzai 范の犯罪)”, a work which has indeed been written by Shiga. Such instances constitute a transgression of the narrative levels or, in some rare cases (for example, House on Fire (Kataku no hito 『火宅の人』) by Dan Kazuo), an obvious breach of contract, but not metafictions in the usual sense. However, it is common for the narrator of a shishōsetsu to show what goes on behind the scenes, and refer to the actual writing of the work. If this is

15 the case and the work mentioned is the novel itself (the fact is often blurred), then a metafictional circular structure can be observed (for example, such Proustian circular structure is seen in The Wind Has Risen (Kaze tachinu『風立ちぬ』) by Hori Tatsuo). What is important here is that this revelation of the process of writing may be a manifestation of the tendency to steer away from “artificiality”, “artifacts”, or “made-up things” mentioned earlier. In other words, it is the contempt for, or rejection of, realistic illusions. For example, in France, realism has evolved, from Balzac to Flaubert, towards erasing the traces of narration, also known as “noises”. The so-called “absence of the narrator” was the way for realistic novels to achieve the highest artistic quality—a logic that is clearly different from this is working in shishōsetsu. But where does this metafictional dimension come from? I think that the travel writings of Bashō, mentioned by Itō Sei too, are one of its origins. Bashō wrote travel pieces with a two-tier structure: before and after each haiku, he placed sentences describing how he produced it; these two elements constitute the work as a whole. I cannot go into details here, but this tradition lives on in the sickbed diaries and descriptive pieces (jojibun 叙事文) by Masaoka Shiki, in the literary sketch-type novels (shaseibunteki shōsetsu 写生文的小説) written by Sōseki in his early days (especially The Grass Pillow (Kusamakura『草枕』), which he called a “haiku-like novel”), as well as in the novels of Takahama Kyoshi. The words that Sōseki used often, “teikai shumi (taste for regarding things with distance and ease) or “yoyū (leeway)” may, in a sense, also point towards this dislike for constrictive plots or realistic illusions. Sōseki, who is said to have never written shishōsetsu, might in fact have had an important influence on the genre. The key to uncovering shishōsetsu may be found in Sōseki, contrary to our expectations ― at least, this is what I think.

Ⅱ . “Otaku Culture” and Japaneseness Ⅱ -1. Narratives for Otaku: “Narrative Consumption” and Nijisōsaku Let us move on to the discussion of “otaku culture”. As mentioned at the beginning, “otaku culture” is a term used to refer to a part of the Japanese subculture that appeared after the 1980s. Foreign specialists in Japanese studies often say that, in the past, what motivated students to enter the Japanese departments were the novels of Kawabata or Mishima. These were, at some point, replaced by the movies directed by Kurosawa, Mizoguchi, and Ozu. Now, students are drawn by Toriyama Akira’s manga and Miyazaki Hayao’s animation movies. With the only exception of Murakami Haruki’s novels, what represents the Japanese culture today is predominantly manga, anime, and video games. Of course not all manga, anime, or games belong to “otaku culture”. “Otaku” refers to maniacs who engage with some of the above- mentioned products in a peculiar manner; they are also quite limited generationally. Today, “otaku culture” is more or less known in foreign countries, therefore, no extra explanations are necessary if we say that it is a unique popular culture linked to terms such as “moe”, “Akiba-kei”, and “komike”. Needless to say, the internet is an essential tool for otaku people.

16 What is at the core of the “otaku culture” is the way the otaku engage with narratives. A narrative (monogatari 物語) is a discourse common to all types of storytelling: novels, movies, manga, anime, games, figures, etc. It is said that, with “otaku culture”, the way of engaging with narratives has dramatically changed. Ōtsuka Eiji, known as a folklorist, manga writer, and editor, was the first to have theorized this, in his Theory of Narrative Consumption (Monogatari shōhiron『物語消費論』)5, first published in 1989. What he calls “narrative consumption” is a unique type of behavior, where the otaku recreate, from various narrative fragments, the “grand narrative” that is envisaged therein. The term “consumption” is used because this is closely linked with the purchasing of merchandise. Ōtsuka thought of this when he observed children eagerly collecting stickers that came with a snack called “Bikkuriman Chocolate”. The stickers had pieces of narratives (to be exact, each sticker had a picture and a brief description of a character). Children were less interested in the snack itself than in collecting the “small narratives” written on over 700 stickers, and accessing a mythical and epic “grand narrative” through them. However, a peculiar reverse phenomenon occurs next, in the field of comics. When this “grand narrative” is widely read as a serial manga and later made into anime, once it is shared among the consumers, then the consumers themselves begin to write “small narratives” on their own, using the characters that appear in the “grand narrative”. This happened, for example, with the soccer manga called Captain Tsubasa (『キャプテン翼』) created by Takahashi Yōichi, which was serially published in a manga magazine called Shōnen Jump (『少年ジャンプ』). Ōtsuka says, “At some point, girls in their late teens began to write stories for self-published magazines called dōjinshi (同人誌) using the main characters that appeared in Captain Tsubasa, and this movement instantly spread throughout the country. Thus, hundreds of “Tsubasa dōjinshi” were created. The famous ones could sell over 10,000 copies of one issue.” This is a phenomenon called nijisōsaku (二次創作), i. e., “derivative work”; popular manga series such as Captain Tsubasa and Saint Seiya were used as the main writing material. Later, in addition to manga characters, real-life idols were also used as material. The word “komike” mentioned earlier is an abbreviation of “comic market”, which refers to an event for selling manga dōjinshi, where more than 10,000 people are said to gather every time. Ōtsuka says that a “grand narrative” becomes a mere “program” in nijisōsaku. For girls making nijisōsaku, “the original Captain Tsubasa was merely a material used to extract that “program”. Once they get a hold of it, the original work becomes one of the dramas that can occur within the program’s framework.” In other words, the original work and nijisōsaku are placed at an equal distance from the “program,” or the “original” gets buried within nijisōsaku.

5 Cf. Eiji Ōtsuka, A Theory of Narrative Consumption: Standard Edition (Teihon: Monogatari shōhiron), Kadokawa Bunko, 2001.

17 What is interesting here is that Ōtsuka regards the relationship between the “grand narrative” or “program” versus “small narratives”, i.e. derivative works in nijisōsaku, as being the same as the relationship between “sekai (world)” versus “shukō (innovative plot elements)” in kabuki, saying that such a way of producing works is not rare in the history of narrative production by Japanese people and has been seen in kabuki and ningyō jōruri (traditional puppet drama). He concludes that, with the works published in “Tsubasa dōjinshi”, like with kabuki and ningyō jōruri, “it is meaningless to think in terms of the ‘original’, and only the quality of ‘shukō’ is valuable”.

Ⅱ -2. Kyaramoe and “Database Consumption” Azuma Hiroki, a sociologist who is also a theorist of “otaku culture”, suggests in his Otaku: Japan’s Database Animals6, published in 2001, a new concept called “database consumption,” which replaces Ōtsuka’s “narrative consumption”. He points out that what is important now is not what Ōtsuka calls “grand narrative”, but the “setting,” which is a database of “moe elements” of the characters. To respond to the so-called kyaramoe, which is an otaku’s passion for characters, these are decomposed into elements and are compiled into a database. Azuma says, “There used to be narratives behind the works. However, as their importance faded, the characters started to gain more and more importance in ‘otaku culture’. Next, a database of ‘moe elements’ that can be used to create characters was established.” Those who make nijisōsaku, “cosplayers”, and related businesses freely extract elements from this database and combine them to come up with derivative works, enjoy cosplaying, or develop products. Azuma summarizes the history of these changes as follows. “During the shift from modern to postmodern, our image of the world drastically changed from one that was supported by narrative, cinema-like views of the world, to one that is accessed via database-like, interface-like search engines. During this shift, in the 1970s, Japanese otaku lost the “grand narratives”; in the 1980s, a second stage was reached, where the otaku had to fabricate those lost narratives themselves (narrative consumption); then in the 1990s, even the urge to fabricate narratives was forgotten, and what they desired was the database itself (database consumption).” Provided that “otaku culture” changes as rapidly as Azuma says, i. e., every ten years, how can we define this culture now, in 2015? This is a very intriguing question. According to Okada Toshio and Harada Yōhei, the “fourth generation otaku”, who came out in the middle of the 2000s, are “‘light otaku’, who value balance and do not waste time or money”; they are “hybrids between riajū (リア充: those who are satisfied in real life) and otaku”7.

Ⅲ. What Connects Shishōsetsu with “Otaku Culture”

6 Hiroki Azuma, Otaku: Japan’s Database Animals, trans. Jonathan Abel and Shion Kōno, Univ. of Minnesota Press, 2009. 7 Okada Toshio & Harada Yōhei, “Do light otaku dream about merchandise?”, AERA, November 16, 2015.

18 Ⅲ-1. Postmodern Panfictionalism and the “Era of Fiction” We have taken a quick look at “otaku culture” from the perspective of the way it engages with narratives. Lastly, I would like to raise a few more questions: What connects shishōsetsu and “otaku culture”? If the two are both uniquely Japanese things, then what are the Japanese features that they share? If such features do not exist, then, at least, how are they related and positioned to each other? These are my questions, which surely sound strange, as I am trying to compare two things that are seemingly very different in nature. One is the “pure literature” of the Taishō and Shōwa periods, while the other is a popular culture premised on a highly consumerist society. I would not be surprised if you thought that these are impossible questions. I myself have been thinking about them for quite some time now, and have reached no definitive conclusion; I would appreciate it if you gave them some thought, too. Shishōsetsu and “otaku culture” not only seem different in nature, but they appear to be the exact opposite of each other from the perspective of fiction. This is because, as mentioned before, shishōsetsu is scarcely fictional, whereas “otaku culture” seems to be characterized by a kind of panfictionalism. Let me explain in more detail here the relationship between “otaku culture” and fiction. Azuma Hiroki says in his book mentioned earlier that “the structure of otaku-related culture reflects the essence of the postmodern”. He mentions the “multiplication of simulacra”, theorized by Jean-François Lyotard and Jean Baudrillard, as the characteristic of the postmodern. “Simulacrum” means neither an original, nor a copy; it is an intermediate between them. Baudrillard had foreseen that this would become predominant in the culture industry of the postmodern society. An example of simulacra in “otaku culture” is nijisōsaku. According to Azuma, consumers are not the only makers of nijisōsaku; in some cases, popular writers, such as the original writer of Sailor Moon, produce their own nijisōsaku, too. According to him, “even for producers themselves, the distinction between the original and the copy no longer exists”. Furthermore, he adds, “Even the works considered to be originals often use imitations or quotations of previous works in their construction of a world. Originals are made as simulacra of previous works from the beginning, without referring to the real world. More and more simulacra of simulacra are produced through dōjin activities and consumed one after another. Works of otaku-related culture are produced not by one modern writer, but within the chain of such numerous imitations and plagiarisms.” Azuma calls this the “generalization of simulacra.” Azuma also argues that the “emphasis on fiction” is an attitude that characterizes the behavior of otaku people. By this, he means that they place more emphasis on values and norms they learn from anime and games, than on values and norms given by social realities, such as familial ties and relationships at the workplace. They do so not only inasmuch as culture reception is concerned, but also within their real-life human relationships. There are sociologists who discuss not only the behavior of otaku, but also the era itself using “fiction” as a keyword. Mita Munesuke named the period since the latter half of the 1970s in Japan (post high-growth period) the “Era of

19 Fiction (Kyokō no jidai 虚構の時代)”, and claimed that the main characteristic of this era is a “loss of reality”8. On a different occasion, Mita called it the “virtual era”, and observed that, when it reaches a critical point as seen today, a “hunger for reality” will in turn arise 9 . Ōsawa Masachi, who basically follows Mita’s periodization, conducted a sociological analysis of the Aum Shinrikyō incident (1995) and found that the event represents the limit and the end of the “Era of Fiction”10. According to Ōsawa, an ultimate situation was created in the Aum Shinrikyō case, where fiction itself functioned as reality. Ōsawa also says that the “Era of Fiction” would be followed by an “Era of Impossibility”, explaining that what is characteristic of the latter is the polarization into an “extreme fictionalization” or an “escape to ‘reality’ (not escape from ‘reality’)”11.

Ⅲ-2. The Uncertainty of “Reality” and the Chain of Simulacra Above I have given a brief overview of the discussion about the panfictionalism of “otaku culture” or the “otaku era”. Before returning to the comparison with shishōsetsu, let me organize the argument a little. Here, I think we have two issues, broadly speaking. One is the issue of the changes in the real world itself, to which fictional works refer: the real world has been eroded by various representational worlds, especially the virtual world and electronic media, which led to a significant regression of the “solid” reality that comes with smells and textures. This gave birth to the “loss of reality” mentioned by Mita. The phenomenon is driven by the massive circulation of manga, anime, and games, as well as the advancement of virtual reality technology, CG technology, and so on. But this “uncertainty of reality itself” is not a problem of fiction in the strict sense of the word; it is a problem that predates fiction. Moreover, it is a phenomenon commonly seen in advanced countries. Yet, as pointed out by Ōtsuka and Azuma, for writers, “original landscapes” and “childhood experience” used to refer to the smell of the earth or the color of the sunset, but now they are scenes from a movie or anime. For shishōsetsu writers who “believe in actual feelings” and try to create works by adhering closely to raw reality, this is a rather harsh writing environment. The other issue is that of the chain of fictional works, which means works leading to the creation of other works, as seen in nijisōsaku. This phenomenon

8 Munesuke Mita, The Thought and Sensibility of Contemporary Japan (Gendai nihon no kankaku to shisō『現代日本の感覚と思想』), Kōdansha Gakujutsu Bunko, 1995. Munesuke Mita, Introduction to Sociology: The Future of People and Society (Shakaigaku nyūmon: Ningen to shakai no mirai 『社会学入門――人間と社会の未来』), Iwanami Shinsho, 2006. Mita separates the postwar history of Japanese society into “Era of Ideals” (1945 to 1960), “Era of Dreams” (1960s to early-1970s), and “Era of Fiction”. 9 Munesuke Mita, “People Hungry for Reality”, Asahi Shimbun, morning paper on December 31, 2008. 10 Masachi Ōsawa, The End of Fictional Age (Kyokō no jidai no hate『虚構の時代の果て』) (enlarged edition), Chikuma Gakugei Bunko, 2009 (first edition: 1996). 11 Masachi Ōsawa, The Age of Impossibility (Fukanōsei no jidai 『不可能性の時代』), Iwanami Shinsho, 2008.

20 obviously does not exist outside Japan. I have already mentioned that Ōtsuka has pointed out that nijisōsaku share with kabuki and ningyō jōruri similar structures, as well as production and evaluation norms. Although the scale is different, I think that the so-called honkadori ( 本歌取り : technique of composing a poem as an allusive-variation of a model poem) seen in waka and yōkyoku is similar to this. What about shishōsetsu? I do not think that this type of creative attitude is observed in shishōsetsu. While nijisōsaku is definitely Japanese, it is also, undoubtedly, incompatible with the creative attitude of shishōsetsu writers. What if we look at the shishōsetsu writers’ detailed accounts of their private lives, inseparable from “sensuous nature”, and the unlimited chain of simulacra of the nijisōsaku, with their infinite drifting, as two extreme manifestations of the same Japanese “radicalness” or “refinement”? The tendency of the Japanese writers to oscillate between these two extremes depending on whether the “sensuous nature” is given or taken away, could be seen as a “symptom” or a “pathology”. This is the answer, quite a simple one, that I came up with for now. There should certainly be others. I leave the question open and finish my talk here.

REFERENCES:

Azuma, H. 2009. Otaku: Japan’s Database Animals, trans. Jonathan Abel and Shion Kōno, Univ. of Minnesota Press. Duprat, A. & Lavocat, F. 2010. eds., Fiction et Cultures, coll. « Poétiques comparatistes », Société française de littérature générale et comparée. Fowler, E. 1988. The Rhetoric of Confession, Univ. of California Press. Itō, S. 2006. The Method of the Novel (Shōsetsu no hōhō『小説の方法』), Iwanami Bunko. Maruyama, M. 1963. Thought and Behavior in Modern Japanese Politics, ed. Ivan Morris, trans. Barbara Ruch, Oxford University Press. Mita, M. 1995. The Thought and Sensibility of Contemporary Japan (Gendai nihon no kankaku to shisō『現代日本の感覚と思想』), Kōdansha Gakujutsu Bunko. Mita, M. 2006. Introduction to Sociology: The Future of People and Society (Shakaigaku nyūmon: Ningen to shakai no mirai 『社会学入門――人間と社会の未来』), Iwanami Shinsho. Ōsawa, M. 2009. The End of Fictional Age (Kyokō no jidai no hate『虚構の時代の果て』) (enlarged edition), Chikuma Gakugei Bunko (first edition: 1996). Ōsawa M. 2008. The Age of Impossibility (Fukanōsei no jidai『不可能性の時代』), Iwanami Shinsho.

21 Ōtsuka, E. 2001. A Theory of Narrative Consumption: Standard Edition (Teihon: Monogatari shōhiron 『定本物語消費論』 ), Kadokawa Bunko

22 DESCRIPTION AND POINT OF VIEW IN THE MODERN JAPANESE NOVEL: IWANO HŌMEI’S THEORETICAL DISCOURSE

Tomoe NAKAMURA, Akihiro KUBO, Manabu KAWADA

Abstract: This three-part paper is based on the panel of the same title presented at the conference “Japan: Premodern, Modern and Contemporary” on the 9th of September, 2015, where the authors discussed how the issues of description and point of view in the novel were treated by Japanese naturalist novelists including Tayama Katai and Iwano Hōmei. In the naturalists’ discourse, description was always linked to the problem of the establishment of realism. Katai, one of the most representative naturalists, proposed the concept of “plane description”, where the writer distances himself from the object and describes it objectively. On the other hand, Hōmei criticized this concept and advocated “monistic description.” Nakamura’s paper summarizes the main points of Hōmei’s theory of monistic description as they were presented for the first time in “My Theory of Description, Which Changes Definitively the Idea of Novel in the Present and the Future”. It tries to clarify the main points of the theory of monistic description based on Hōmei’s process of theorizing it, and on the revisions to his novels that he made at the same time. Kubo’s paper tries to grasp the features of Japanese naturalists’ description from the viewpoint of the contemporary literary theory in the West. Comparing the writings of Tayama Katai, and those of Iwano Hōmei, Kubo reveals that the Japanese naturalists’ conception of description is characterized by subjectivism, and that Hōmei not only developed the subjectivism of Japanese naturalists into a problem of “point of view”, but also had been influenced by French symbolism. Kawada’s paper considers Hōmei’s “monistic description” as pertaining to the problem of the “point of view” in contemporary narrative theories in the West, and, by focusing on a comparison with Henry James, points out that their similarity in novelistic method results from their common ideal of the novel. It also examines two different theoretical formulations of the point of view in novels, namely Gérard Genette’s and Mieke Bal’s, in relation to Hōmei’s arguments. Keywords: narratology, (Japanese) naturalism, description, focalization

23 Iwano Hōmei as a Literary Theorist: The Main Points of the Theory of Monistic Description

Tomoe NAKAMURA

I. Problem Setting for This Paper In modern Japan, it was the literary circle known as the naturalists who put forth description as a topic for discussion. The naturalistic way of thinking was popular around 1907; it helped lay the foundation of the modern Japanese novel. Nakamura Mitsuo argued that “the technical framework for Japan’s unique form of realism, as well as the concept of ‘literature’ were formed as a result of naturalism1”. Iwano Hōmei (1873-1920) modeled his methods of naturalist description on Tayama Katai’s “plane description” [heimen-byōsya（平面描写）], offering comments and advocating “monistic description” [ichigen-byōsya（一元描写）] as a new form. As indicated by the title of a collection of critical essays— “New Naturalism”（『新自然主義』）—Hōmei should be considered as a critic of naturalism. Hōmei himself was a naturalist author. However, besides the novels Tandeki [Addiction（耽溺）] and Hōmei Gobusaku [Five Novels of Hōmei（泡鳴五部作） ], the name Hōmei is synonymous with the theory of “monistic description” in the history of literature. In other words, rather than a novelist, Hōmei should perhaps be considered a literary theorist. What was Hōmei’s theory of monistic description? In this paper, we will clarify the main points of the theory of monistic description based on Hōmei’s process of theorizing it, and on the revisions to his novels that he made at the same time.

II. The Process of Theorizing Monistic Description During the period when there was a controversy about description among naturalist writers, Hōmei published several essays critically examining the description theories and the descriptive passages appearing in the novels of naturalist writers (“Methods of Description in Contemporary Novels”（「現代小説の描写法」）(1911) ; “Criticism of Material Depictions”（「物質的描写論を難ず」） (1911) ; “Mr. Shimazaki Tōson as a Novelist”（「小説家としての島崎藤村氏」） (1911) ; “A Renewed Discussion on Descriptions”（「描写再論」）(1912) ; “Four Stages of Novelistic Expression”（「小説表現の四段階」） (1912). However, the systematic presentation of Hōmei’s theory of monistic description as a unique theory was somewhat late, appearing in the critical essay “My Theory of Description, Which Changes Definitively the Idea of Novel in the

 Associate professor, Shizuoka University 1 Nakamura, Mitsuo, A Discussion of the Fūzoku-novel (『風俗小説論』 ), Shinchōsha, 1958, p. 7. My translation, Nakamura Tomoe.

24 Present and the Future” （「現代将来の小説的発想を一新すべき僕の描写論」） (1918) (hereinafter referred to as “My Theory of Description”). “My Theory of Description” was the object of much discussion at the time of its publication, with Hōmei objecting to criticism. He started to amend his study with the intention to publish a whole series of articles related to description. But he passed away without completing this endeavor. The manuscript that he left behind was included in the old “Iwano Hōmei Zenshu” [The Complete Works of Iwano Hōmei（『岩野泡鳴全集』）] as “A Study of Description”（「描写論」）. In other words, we might say that Hōmei’s theory of monistic description was developed through a process that includes (1) critiques of the descriptions and description theories of naturalist writers like Tayama Katai, (2) the theorization/systemization of his own theories of description (“My Theory of Description”), (3) responses to criticism of “My Theory of Description”, and (4) the preparation for publication of “A Study of Description”. Below, we have summarized the main points of Hōmei’s theory of monistic description as they were presented for the first time in “My Theory of Description”.

III. The Main Points of “My Theory of Description” At the beginning of “My Theory of Description”, Hōmei stated that he would try to narrow down his focus to the neither attached, nor detached relationship [fusoku-furi（不即不離）] between author and characters. According to Hōmei, in Katai’s “plane description,” the author is to observe multiple characters impartially and directly. Under such circumstances, life can only be described in a general, explanatory sense. In other words, description cannot be separated from general ideas and explanations (Diagram 1). (Diagram 1) Plane Description

Author y Conceptual Life

Characters

With monistic description, the author adopts the main character’s state of mind. The author is to observe other characters “based on the state of mind of the

25 main character2” and to share his or her opinion. Hōmei argued that “things that cannot be seen, heard, or otherwise felt are all like an unexplored universe or a remote island for the main character; even if the author knows about these things, he or she omits them. If the author does not want to omit this information, that portion too is written as if it were heard, seen or felt by the main character3.” This is an “indirect” description in the sense that the author is “looking at life through the state of mind of another4,” but it allows for a description of life in concrete terms. (Diagram 2) Monistic Description

Author x Real Life

z Main Character

Characters

According to Hōmei, Katai’s “plane description” is a kind of “material naturalism”, which is pluralistic in the sense that the relationship established between the author and his or her characters is one of neither attachment, nor detachment, with the author essentially observing the character from afar as a spectator. While the relationship between the author and his or her characters is direct, it captures nothing more than the concept of life. Monistic description on the other hand is a form of internal naturalism, in the sense that this relationship of neither attachment, nor detachment is only formed between the author and one character (the protagonist). The author establishes the main character as an agent, imparting his or her own subjectivity on this person. For this reason, the relationship with other characters is an indirect one; with this method, it becomes possible to capture life in concrete terms. Hōmei stated as much, insisting that monistic description was a superior literary tool. “My Theory of Description” argues that monistic description is superior, classifying descriptions according to the relationship between the

2 Iwano, Hōmei, “My Theory of Description” ［「現代将来の小説的発想を一新すべき僕の描写論」］, in The Complete Works of Iwano Hōmei, vol. 11, Rinsen Shoten, 1996, p. 313. My translation, N.T. 3 Ibid. 4 Ibid., p. 314.

26 author and the characters, and taking into account whether this relationship is pluralistic or monistic. In other words, we might say that the theory of monistic description suggests that the author establishes a neutral relationship solely with the main character and that, according to the ideas in “My Theory of Description”, the author does not establish such a relationship with any of the other characters except for the protagonist. IV. Revising the Novels Beginning in 1910 and thereafter, Hōmei began to publish intermittently in multiple magazines and newspapers a series of novels collected in Hōmei Gobusaku [Five Novels of Hōmei]. This series started to be published in 1919 (Book I, Hōro（『放浪』）; Book II, Dankyō（『断橋』）; Book III, Tsuki- mono（『憑き物』）; Book IV, Hatten（『発展』）; Book V, Dokuyaku Onna （『毒薬女』） (unpublished)). In these novels, Hōmei used “My Theory of Description” to theorize/systemize his own theories of description. Responding to criticism, this was the period in which Hōmei attempted to summarize his “Theory of Description”. The novels published as Hōmei Gobusaku were revised in various ways after their initial publication. As part of the process of theorizing monistic description, in accordance with his own assertions, Hōmei revised his own novels. As a result of these revisions, in the Five Novels of Hōmei, the things that the protagonist Tamura Yoshio could not hear, see, or feel were omitted. Or, rather, these parts were revised so that Yoshio could sense this information. For example, in Tsuki-mono, in the scene where the main character Yoshio and his lover Otori attempt double suicide, large parts of the passages in the first edition where Otori recollects their past are taken over or diverted by Yoshio5. To the original edition, Hōmei also appended or added passages where things are seen, heard or felt by characters other than the protagonist, creating totally new stories. For example, in Hōro, he deleted the parts showing the emotions of Arima Isamu as well as the exchanges with his wife, Otsuna, in the scenes in Chapters 3 where Tamura Yoshio is absent, and these parts were compiled under the title “Isamu no Katei [The Isamu Household（勇の家庭）]” and added as an appendix to Dankyō. Moreover, the deleted passages from Dankyō were compiled as an appendix with the title “Otori no Kurushimi [Otori’s Suffering（お鳥の苦み）].” In addition, Chapters 29 and 30 of Horō were deleted, and compiled as appendixes, with the former titled “Hyōhō no Danpen [Fragments of an Ice Peak（氷峰の断片）]” and the latter titled “Osuzu no Ie [The House of Osuzu（お鈴の家）]6.” What these revisions indicate can be summed up as follows. Monistic descriptions, i.e., descriptions of the world as seen, heard, or felt by the main character, are realized by excluding passages that describe the world as perceived

5 Ban, Etsu, “Commentary & Synopsis”（「解説・解題」）, in The Complete Works of Iwano Hōmei, vol. 3, Rinsen Shoten, 1995, p. 574. 6 Okubo, Norio, “Commentary& Synopsis”（「解説・解題」）, in The Complete Works of Iwano Hōmei, vol. 2, Rinsen Shoten, 1994, p. 486.

27 by characters other than the protagonist. Also, the passages that describe the world as perceived by a character other than the protagonist are reshuffled (as an “Appendix” or “Addendum”) into a totally different work, in which the world is described as it is perceived by the (new) protagonist. In other words, monistic descriptions, in which the world is described as perceived by the protagonist, are realized by not describing the world that the protagonist does not perceive, by not describing the world perceived by characters other than the protagonist, or by omitting such passages from the literary work.

V. The Main Points of Monistic Description Iwano Hōmei’s monistic description can be considered to be a negative (or double negative) method, as, rather than describing the world perceived by the protagonist, it does not describe the world not perceived by the protagonist, or does not describe the world perceived by characters other than the protagonist. Monistic descriptions are defined more by what NOT to describe and how NOT to describe, than by what and how to describe. The tenets of monistic descriptions as presented —theoretically and systematically— in “My Theory of Description” are quite clear. However, we can say that as a methodology for novels, it can be quite difficult to understand.

Subjectivity in Description – Tayama Katai and Iwano Hōmei’s Theories of Description

Akihiro KUBO

Painting and Description – Tayama Katai’s Theory of Description My purpose in this paper is to examine the discussions about description proposed by Japanese naturalists from the point of view of the western literary theories. This approach will clarify the characteristics of the debates about description in which writers such as Tayama Katai, Tokutomi Sohō and, of course, Iwano Hōmei, took part in the 1910s. In fact, these writers, even though they were influenced by French novelists, for example by Emile Zola and Guy de Maupassant, put forward a concept of description which is considerably different from that of the French naturalists. My paper contains two parts. First, I will analyse the writings of Tayama Katai in order to show that the Japanese naturalists’ conception of description is characterized by subjectivism. In the second part, I will examine the writings of Iwano Hōmei. Criticizing the argument of Katai, Hōmei formulated his idea of “monistic description”. With this concept, Hōmei not only developed the subjectivism of Japanese naturalists into a problem of “point of view” or, to use a term of narrative theory, “focalization”, but also came close to one other influence of the French literature from this period, that is, symbolism.

 Associate professor, Kwansei Gakuin University

28 Let us consult the structuralist narrative theory to grasp the features of Japanese naturalists’ conception of description. In his article “Frontiers of Narrative” (1966), Gérard Genette takes “description” into consideration as part of his narrative theory. According to the French theorist, “description” is a kind of representation (mimesis) which concerns things and characters. It contrasts with “narration”, which corresponds to the representation of actions. Every narrative in fact comprises two kinds of representations, which however are closely intermingled and in variable proportions: on the one hand, those of actions and events, which constitute the narration in the strict sense and, on the other hand, those of objects or characters that are the result of what we now call description. The opposition between narration and description, which was so stressed by academic tradition, is one of the major features of our literary consciousness1. As Genette says, the dichotomy between “description” and “narration” has defined the concept of literature for a long time. Philippe Hamon, in Du Descriptif (On description) (1993), has also taken this dichotomy in consideration. In brief, these theorists attempt to define the functions peculiar to the description, considered as secondary to narration. In this context, in his famous essay entitled “The Reality Effect” (1968), Roland Barthes made an important remark about the function of description in relation to realism. The irreducible residues of functional analysis have this in common: they denote what is ordinarily called “concrete reality” (insignificant gestures, transitory attitudes, insignificant objects, redundant words). The pure and simple “representation” of the “real”, the naked relation of “what is” (or has been) thus appears as a resistance to meaning [……]2 According to Barthes, the description is defined as a special textual function that a narrative theory focused on narration does not take into account. To use Barthes’ own expressions, it consists of “irreducible residues of functional analysis” or a “naked account of ‘what is’ (or has been)” that would be characterized as a “resistance to meaning”. What Barthes points out in this article is that the descriptive details that might be considered as non-function or nonsense with respect to the narrative structure have their own function, i.e., they evoke the Real. The remarks of these French theorists will be helpful when looking into the ideas on description proposed by the Japanese naturalists. Let us examine “On Painting [Description3]” by Tayama Katai (1911), in order to make clear the differences between the western theorists and Japanese writers.

1 Genette, Gérard, “Frontiers of Narrative”, in Figures of Literary Discourse, translated by Alan Sheridan, Columbia University Press, 1982, p. 133. 2 Barthes, Roland, “The Reality Effect”, in The Rustle of Language, translated by Richard Howard, University of California Press, 1989, p. 146. 3 As we will see below, Katai attributes the term of “painting” to what I call here description and the term of “description” to another kind of writing. I will follow Katai’s

29 As the western theorists, Katai tries to define description by means of dichotomy. However, it is not “narration”, but “painting”, that he sets besides “description”. To start my discussion on byōsha (描写), I would like to argue about the distinction between byōsha and kijutsu（記述）. While kijutsu corresponds to “description”, byōsha should be considered as the equivalent of “painting”4. In the system “byōsha = painting / kijutsu = description”, narration refers to both terms. For the Japanese writers including Hōmei, the distinction between the representation of actions and the representation of things and characters is not important. What is, then, the criteria that distinguish “painting” from “description”? Katai defines the latter in these terms: Kijutsu [description] is the same as jojutsu（叙述）. It means to write down everything, that is to say, all the things that go through your brain [……]. It doesn’t matter whether the writing is plane or in relief, subjective or objective. One who is in kijutsu mode does not observe the things in terms of reality, nor does he try to attach reality to these things. In other words, he doesn’t care whether his writing evokes the things as they are to his reader. The question which concerns him is to communicate what he sees or hears by abstracting it into a plot or by summarizing it5. For him and other Japanese naturalists, “kijutsu = description” is characterized as conceptual writing. “Byōsha = painting” is, on the other hand, to be defined as “realistic” writing. [……] the painting [byōsha] is quite different. One who deals with it doesn’t either try to communicate his intention or tell a story, nor does he want to report an event. What he seeks to do is to represent by words a scene exactly as he sees and perceives it6. For Barthes, it is on the semantic function that the realism of description depends. Katai, on the other hand, does not share this structuralist approach. For the Japanese writer who intends to establish a direct connection between perception and expression, the realism of description is based on the status of the subject in the mimetic activity. However, the ways by which the subject involves himself into the mimetic activity to “represent by words a scene exactly as he sees and conceives it”, in other words, the ways by which he realizes the realistic representations, are different from one writer to another. Let us compare the thesis of Tayama Katai and that of Tokuda Shūsei. Katai explains “painting” as follows: “A plum tree is flowering.” This is not painting [byōsha], but description [kijutsu]. “I see a white plum.” This is closer to painting. We must make an

terminology. 4 Katai, Tayama, “On Painting”（「描写論」）, in The Complete Works of Katai（『定本花袋全集』）, vol.15, Rinsen Shoten, 1937, pp.117-118. My translation, Kubo Akihiro. 5 Ibid. 6 Ibid.

30 effort to show clearly the flowering plum tree in front of us. That is the essence of painting.

He pulled down the blinds.（かれは雨戸を閉めた。） I heard that someone pulled down the blinds.（雨戸を閉める音が聞えた。） There was a sound of a wave.（波の音がした。） I heard a sound of a wave.（波の音が聞えた。）

In these two cases, the latter is closer to the idea of painting7. Shūsei, in “How to Depict Characters” (1912) develops his ideas on description (painting) in these terms: The aim of the painting [byōsha] is neither to communicate one’s intention nor to tell a story. Nor is it to report an event. It consists of representing accurately and in a lively manner on paper the scene that one sees and perceives. One must observe things in terms of reality and try to attach reality to these things. In other words, one must make sure that the writing evokes the things as they are to the reader. [……] “A heavy door opened. Setting the naked flame of a candle in the corner, my grandmother pulled out the drawer of a heavy metallic chest. She took out many sheaves of old documents wrapped in tanned paper.”（重い杉戸が開いた。火の裸な蝋燭を隅に立てて、祖母は鉄金具の重い箪笥の抽斗を抜出した。一束づつ渋紙に纏めた古証文が、幾束もそこに取出された。） This is painting [byōsha]. “I feel very lonely tonight. I think about all the members of my family who live in different places…… The image of a “broken house” comes to mind.” （今夜は無闇と寂しい。兄弟母子悉く所を異にして住んで居るかと思ふと ……「崩れた家」の姿がまざまざと目に浮かぶ。） This is description [kijutsu]8. Katai considers “A plum tree is flowering” as “kijutsu = description”, and “I see a white plum” as “byōsha = painting”. For him, “painting” means a kind of writing through which the reader can recognize the subjectivity of the narrator- author. Shūsei, on the other hand, reverses the distinction proposed by Katai between “painting” and “description”, although he almost copies Katai’s ideas. In fact, he considers a sentence like “A heavy door opened” as “painting”, while a sentence that contains verbs of perception such as “I feel very lonely tonight” is considered “description”. For Shūsei, as opposed to Katai, the writing characterized by the marks of subjectivity is to be classified as “kijutsu = description”.

7 Ibid., pp. 118-119. 8 Tokuda, Shūsei, “How to Depict the Characters”（「人物描写法」）, in The Complete Works of Shūsei Tokuda （『徳田秋聲全集』） , vol.24, Yagi Shoten, 2001. My translation, K.A.

31 In fact, such confusion exists in the theoretical texts of Katai. In “My Attempt in Life”（「『生』に於ける試み」） (1908) which is a speech written down by Sōma Gyofū, Katai proposes the concept of “plane painting9”, which became emblematic to the Japanese naturalism. I tried to exclude any kind of subjectivity and device in order to express objectively the materials as they are. I did not add any subjectivity to my text, neither did I go inside the things or characters’ minds. The only thing I did was to depict the phenomenon as it is, that is, as I see, hear and touch it. It is this type of plane painting that I want to do. I depict my experience as I see, hear and touch it without any subjectivity nor analysis of interiority10. The objectivism of “plane painting” that Katai put forward here is close to Shusei’s concept of “byōsha = painting”. In fact, it is this “plane painting”, with its objectivism, that established itself as a doctrine of naturalism. Certainly, it would not be fair to criticize Katai for contradicting himself since a novelist has the freedom to change his method from one work to another. But these two texts show at least that Katai is oscillating between subjectivism and objectivism as far as the involvement of the subject in mimetic activities is concerned. Analyzing the discussions about the description of Japanese naturalists, Noguchi Takehiko observes a paradoxical essence in this confusion between subjectivism and objectivism. According to him, the language of Japanese naturalism was established through the conflicts between the objective description put forward by the writers and the “emotional self” or the romantic self that these writers kept to themselves. Removing the marks of the direct intervention of the author, the Japanese naturalists tried to express their self indirectly, that is, through description. Noguchi says that “the author hides himself, but marks his ego, like fingerprints, everywhere on his description11”. However, Katai seems consider his ideas on the description not as a “paradox” as Noguchi remarks, but as a synthesis. This is what he calls “impression （印象）”. In his “On Painting”, Katai mentions French impressionism and compares it with his literary theory. For him, the impressionists’ depiction, although looks like apparently a “copy of nature” that excludes the subjectivity of the artist, is an attempt to “express concretely all the things that the artist has – personality, technique, culture, taste, etc. – without putting forward his subjectivity or ideas like in the case of criticism12”. The naturalist’s principle of objective description and romantic lyricism should be

9 Usually referred to as “flat description” or “plane description”. I follow Katai’s terminology. 10 Yoshida, Seiichi and Wada, Kingo (eds.), Japanese Modern Literary Criticism Reader （『近代文学評論体系』） (3), Kadokawa Shoten, 1972, p. 448. My translation, K.A. 11 Noguchi, Takehiko, Japanese Language in Novels – The World of Japanese Language （『小説の日本語─日本語の世界』） (13), Chūō-Kōron Sha, 1980, p. 197. My translation, K.A. 12 Katai, Tayama, op. cit.., p.129.

32 synthetized in the impressionist’s esthetic, which “gives concrete expression to all subjectivity of the author13”.

“Neither Attached, nor Detached”: The “Monistic Description” of Iwano Hōmei In Rhetoric of Fiction (1961), Wayne C. Booth proposes the distinction between “telling” and “showing”14. Analyzing the novels in 19th century, Booth notes an important change that took place in this period, especially after Flaubert. The author-narrator, common in the novels of 18th century, who intervenes in the story to make comments or criticize, disappears for the sake of pure objectivity. In other words, the modern novel excludes “telling” to introduce an ideal of the impersonal “showing”. From this perspective, the “kijutsu = description” of the Japanese naturalists corresponds to “telling”, and “byōsha = painting” corresponds to “showing”. It will be possible to reformulate, from this point of view, the problematic concerning the description of the Japanese naturalists. The naturalistic description as formulated by Noguchi, that is, the way by which a novelist expresses his subjectivity through the objective description, corresponds to the way by which he places the subjectivity of the author-narrator without “telling”. This question is, like in the case of other Japanese naturalists, too, the point of departure for Iwano Hōmei’s theory of description. Hōmei formulated his idea on description in opposition to Katai’s “plane painting”, as “monistic description”. In “My Theory of Description, Which Changes Definitively the Idea of Novel in the Present and the Future” (1918), Hōmei compares two attitudes by which the writer deals with “life”. The first consists of the way in which the author treats multiple characters equally. Hōmei calls this “simple, conceptual or plane description15”. The second is “monistic description”. This means that the author approaches the other characters through the perspective of only one character. In the “monistic description”, the author- narrator must not talk about what the protagonist whose state of mind he adopts cannot know or perceive. […] first of all, the author should put himself into the shoes of one of these characters. This character will be the protagonist. The author observes the other characters from the point of view and via the feelings of the protagonist. He omits what the protagonist can’t hear, see or feel, considering it as an unexplored universe or a remote island16.

13 Ibid. 14 Booth, Wayne C., The Rhetoric of Fiction, Second Edition, The University of Chicago Press, 1961. 15 According to Katai’s terminology, “description” is “painting”. 16 Iwano Hōmei, “My Theory of Description, Which Changes Definitively the Idea of Novel in the Present and the Future” ［「現代将来の小説的発想を一新すべき僕の描写論」］, in The Complete Works of Iwano Hōmei, vol.11, Rinsen Shoten, 1996, p. 325. My translation, K.A.

33 It is important to notice that the question of “monistic description” is not a matter of grammatical person (Hōmei writes that “even if the author attributes the third person to the protagonist, he lets the protagonist narrate in the first person as if it were an autobiography”), but the “internal focalization” as Genette would say. For Hōmei, the narrative technique is inseparable from its effect. In this case, the type of description used has to do with the type of “life” described. Contrary to the “plane description” which represents a “conceptual life”, the “monistic description” expresses a “real life”. Naturally, Hōmei considers his “monistic description” as the appropriate method for an authentic realism. How, then, can “real life” be represented by the “monistic description”? Hōmei makes four remarks. The first concerns psychology: it is impossible to perceive or understand the ideas and feelings of others as they perceive or understand them themselves. About the interiority of others, Hōmei says that one cannot “import into his own world” anything but what “one can understand by seeing, hearing and imagining realistically”. From this point of view, he reveals his method in these terms: “The author doesn’t understand the others as he understands himself. He can not, therefore, write about all the ideas and feelings of others […] objectively, even when he observes the others very calmly17.” Thus, Hōmei criticizes the leaders of “plane description” who believe in a neutral point of view. To distinguish his idea from those of other naturalists like Katai, he calls his own naturalism “internal naturalism” or “internal realism”. The second remark is an epistemological one. Hōmei is, indeed, an astute observer, not only of contemporary Japanese literature, but also of the philosophical movements in the Occident. In his “Philosophical Preliminaries” (1918?), Hōmei defines the limit of human cognition by comparing the modern occidental philosophy and the traditional oriental philosophy. […] what we can recognize is objectivity accompanied by subjectivity, in other words, subjective objectivity. Objectivity without subjectivity or objective objectivity is impossible, so it does not exist. The contrary is also true. Subjective subjectivity does not exist. What we call usually subjectivity is objective subjectivity, that is, subjectivity mixed with objectivity.

(figure 5) objectivity subjectivity

The only things that we can recognize consist of those existing in the overlapping area of this figure18.

17 Ibid., p. 315. 18 Iwano Hōmei, “Philosophical Preliminaries” （「哲理上の予備的知識」） , in The Complete Works of Iwano Hōmei, vol.11, op. cit., p. 313. My translation, K.A.

As shown in this quotation, Hōmei considers that human cognition is necessarily characterized by the superposition of subjectivity and objectivity. The fact that “objective objectivity” does not exist also means that things appear differently to each person. This is what Hōmei calls “subjective color”. These phenomenological and relativist ideas about human cognition are meant to make the psychological explication for the “monistic description” more solid. But they also show Hōmei’s modernist side. In this respect, Akihiko Kitano remarks that “[the monistic description] is appropriate for the contemporary situation – from the end of realism proper to the 19th century – in which one can no longer believe that an omniscient narrator can understand and represent the whole society by its partial or typical descriptions19”. The third point Hōmei makes concerns the question of fiction. Elaborated at the same time with his theory of description, Hōmei’s novels included in the volume Hōmei Gobusaku (Five Novels of Hōmei) contain many autobiographical elements. This coincidence suggests that the hero, Yoshio Tamura, is an alter ego of the author. However, the novelist was strongly opposed to the critics who identified him with the hero. His reaction is to be explained by one of the principles of the “monistic description”, which is the “neither attached, nor detached” relationship. Why, then, did Hōmei claim some distance between author and hero, although he admitted that the former must perceive the world and understand the others through the cognition of the latter? In my opinion, the reason is that Hōmei sought to create a universe of fiction. In “Practical evidence of monistic description” (1919), Hōmei mentions an example of a zoologist who discovered a piece of bone that he cannot recognize. Mobilizing all the knowledge he has, the scientist will try to imagine the animal in its totality. Hōmei considers this animal thus reconstructed not only as a “discovery based upon the facts” but also as a “subjective creation”20. In his literary theory, the piece of bone and the reconstructed animal correspond to the hero and to “life”, respectively. In fact, Hōmei writes in the same text that “in this case [=monistic description], the subjectivity of the author gets inside the protagonist of the work, but it also penetrates the other people whom the latter sees. This is how author and mediator establish the ‘neither attached, nor detached’ relationship between them21”. Here, Hōmei points out that the subjectivity of the author is related not only to the protagonist, but also to the other characters perceived via the protagonist. The “real life” which the “monistic description” creates corresponds to the subjective life of the author that includes the universe of fiction in its totality.

19 Akihiko Kitano, “Rethinking Hōmei’s ‘monistic description’”（「泡鳴の『一元描写』論を見直す」）, Monthly report（「月報」）6, The Complete Works of Iwano Hōmei, vol. 11, op. cit.. My translation, K.A. 20 Iwano Hōmei, “Practical evidence of monistic description”（「一元描写の実際証明」）, in The Complete Works of Iwano Hōmei, vol.11, op. cit.., p. 331. My translation, K.A. 21 Ibid.

35 The fourth and last point, the poetic one, refers to the creative process by which the artist starts from partial things in order to represent “life” as a whole. In the article entitled “Four Stages of Novelistic Expression”(1912), Hōmei claims that the aim of novelistic writing is the “descriptive description [= monistic description]”. He says that “to understand the material that is inseparable from the spirit or the part inseparable from totality, we must adopt symbolic suggestion, which is the same as descriptive description22”. What is important in this quotation is, besides the aim of description defined as “the part inseparable from totality”, the fact that Hōmei identifies “descriptive description” with “symbolic suggestion”. For him, the idea of “monistic description” is related to the theory of the symbol. It is necessary to notice here that Hōmei is the translator of the influential work of Arthur Symons, The Symbolist Movement in Literature (1899, Hōmei’s translation was published in 1913) and that he wrote some texts about the question of symbol and symbolism when he was elaborating his “monistic description”. In his “Translator’s foreword” for the work of Symons, Hōmei, talking about the suggestive force of language, presents symbolism in these terms: “[The Symbolists] find things into which to put a part of life. Then they realize the life of the thing itself not by means of an affirmative language but by extending the virtues of language and including the suggestive force in them23.” These comments on symbolism show common features with Hōmei’s idea of the “monistic description”. In Hōmei’s theory of description, naturalism is akin to symbolism.

Point of View in the Theory and Works of Iwano Hōmei

Manabu KAWADA

1. Iwano Hōmei, a Japanese naturalist novelist, wrote “My Theory of Description” in 1918, in which he argued the novel should have one and only point of view: [the second type of novelistic description requires] the author to emotionally identify himself with one of his characters. Let x be that character. The author must observe other characters from x’s point of view and must not tell what x doesn’t hear, see or feel. Even though the author

22 Iwano Hōmei, “Four Stages of Novelistic Expression”（「小説表現の四階段」）, in The Complete Works of Iwano Hōmei, vol.11, op. cit.., p. 304. My translation, K.A. 23 Iwano Hōmei, “Translator’s foreword” for the translation of The Symbolist Movement in Literature（『表象派の文学運動』翻訳のための「訳者の序」）, in The Complete Works of Iwano Hōmei, vol.14, Rinsen Shoten, 1996, p. 289. My translation, K.A.  Associate professor, Department of Creative Writing, Kyoto University of Art and Design

36 actually knows what x doesn’t know, he should discard it as if it were a world or an isolated island that x has not yet discovered.24

This style of description is what he coined “monistic description” (ichigen- teki-byōsha; 一元的描写, figure 1), which can be summarized into the following two points: 1) the author (or the narrator, to be more accurate) identifies himself with a character, and 2) the author/narrator does not tell what the character does not know. These naturally evoke the narratological concept of point of view. Especially the second part of this formulation, given in a double negative form, reminds us of how Gérard Genette defined the concept: he refers to the narrative use of point of view as “restrictive 25 .” For Genette and his predecessors, introducing a point of view in a novel is not a way to show something, but to hide it. That is why Genette gave the notion a new term, “focalization.” y Author x Real Life z Figure 1. Hōmei’s Monistic Description

Genette categorized the styles of focalization as follows: 1) zero focalization (point of view is not fixed; omniscient narrator), 2) internal focalization (point of view is fixed onto one character) and 3) external focalization (point of view is fixed within the narrative world, but not onto a character; “camera eye” or behaviourist narrative). Hōmei’s argument for ichigen-teki- byōsha was actually made against “plane description” (heimen-teki-byōsha; 平面的描写), which his contemporary, Tayama Katai, had proposed. While Hōmei’s monistic description is readily identified with Genette’s internal focalization, Tayama’s plane description is more difficult to classify. However, a quick look at Tayama’s work will show that, although as a whole the point of view is not fixed to one single character, most of the scenes are actually focalized and therefore most of his works should be regarded as instances of variable internal focalization. At the same time, Hōmei’s persistence in ichigen-teki-byōsha reminds us of Henry James, who, for example in The Ambassadors, had his narrator tell a story of hundreds of pages solely from the point of one single character, namely Strether. This paper, by locating Hōmei’s method in the Western literary theory and comparing his method with James’s, aims at discussing the significance of Hōmei’s proposition of ichigen-teki-byōsha in the context of the naturalism in the late Meiji era. 2.

24 Iwano Hōmei, “My Theory of Description, Which Changes Definitively the Idea of Novel in the Present and the Future” (「現代将来の小説的発想を一新すべき僕の描写論」), in The Complete Works of Iwano Hōmei [『岩野泡鳴全集』], vol. 11, Rinsen Shoten, 1996, p. 313. All translations from Japanese are mine (Kawada Manabu). 25 Genette Gérard, “Narrative Discourse: an Essay in Method”, translated by Jane E. Lewin, Cornell University Press, 1980, pp. 186ff.

37 Let us start with the comparison of Hōmei’s method with James’s. Similarities are not only found in their methods but in the reasons why they employ them. Note that, as shown in figure 1, Hōmei intends to represent “life” by employing ichigen-teki-byōsha. This echoes the following passage from James’s manifest of the novelistic method in his “The Art of Fiction”: The only reason for the existence of a novel is that it does attempt to represent life.26 In order to “represent life,” James emphasizes the importance of the use of “impression”: Humanity is immense, and reality has a myriad forms […] Experience is never limited, and it is never complete; it is an immense sensibility, a kind of huge spider-web of the finest silken threads suspended in the chamber of consciousness, and catching every air-borne particle in its tissue. [...] If experience consists of impressions, it may be said that impressions are experience, just as (have we not seen it?) they are the very air we breathe.27 Thus, according to James, “a novel is in its broadest definition a personal, a direct impression of life” 28 and this explains why he pursued internal focalization thoroughly. James’s emphasis on “impression” as a basis of the novelistic representation reminds us of Hōmei’s “Philosophical Preliminaries,” one of the sections in his “My Argument,” where he explained his epistemological assumptions to defend monistic description. According to Hōmei, we can only perceive “the object accompanied by the subject, in other words, the subjective object” and we cannot even imagine “the object without the subject, in other words, the objective object” and therefore actually there is no such thing29. What we can perceive is the intersection of subject and object, as shown in figure 2.

Subject Object Figure 2. Subject and Object We can understand that James’s “impression” corresponds to Hōmei’s “object accompanied with subject” and that they independently invented and developed the technique of employing a narrative point of view in order to represent “life” through a character’s impression/subjective object. 3. Ōnishi Akio, one of the Japanese translators of James’ works, argued in his unfinished paper on Hōmei and James that, although they shared the means of

26 James, Henry, “The Art of Fiction”, in Literary Criticism, vol 2, The Library of America, 1984, p. 46. 27 Ibid, pp. 52ff. 28 Ibid, p. 50. 29 Iwano, Hōmei, “My Theory of Description”, p. 325.

38 using the point of view, they differed in the extent to which they pursued it. To explain this, Ōnishi cites the following argument from Percy Lubbock’s The Craft of Fiction: But though in The Ambassadors the point of view is primarily Strether’s, and though it appears to be his throughout the book, there is in fact an insidious shifting of it, so artfully contrived that the reader may arrive at the end without suspecting the trick.30 Ōnishi claims that Hōmei was more strict about the use of point of view in that he didn’t perform this type of “shifting” in his works. However, actually it is not too difficult to find a “shift” in the point of view in Hōmei’s works. Hōmei, after establishing his arguments for monistic description, revised some of his precedent works so that they accorded with the method he advocated. But even in the final versions, we can find a few examples of deviation. The following is an example from his “The Woman who Takes Poison” (1914): “I guess she heard it from Shimizu, but you cannot underestimate him,” said Yoshio, showing his lean face and a large forehead, with his eyes glowing behind the glasses, “just because he is a stall keeper—they do love each other.”31 In this passage, although Yoshio is the point-of-view character, i.e., the one who sees, he is also the one who is seen. The reader wonders who is it that sees Yoshio’s lean face and his glowing eyes. Another example from Development: This was because, now that Yoshio was exhausted from all these years of life, from running around for money, and from wandering, and had had enough of pains of living—that was exactly what life was, his acquisition of the house that his father had built meant, he thought, that he was now less responsible and thus he was one step closer to the irresponsible death.32 This passage explains how Yoshio felt when he happened to trim a tree planted in the yard of the lodging house he inherited from his father. Although it simply describes the inner state of the focal character, with its beginning having an explanatory tone (“this was because…”), it foregrounds the existence and the role of the narrator. Hōmei, in revising his own works, is said to have removed all the scenes from his works that cannot be told through the point-of-view characters. As mentioned in the first section this paper, Hōmei’s principle is that the author/narrator does not tell what their point-of-view character does not know. The passages quoted above do not collide with this principle, for the information given in them is entirely what the point-of-view character (in this case, Yoshio)

30 Lubbock, Percy, The Craft of Fiction, Jonathan Cape and Harrison Smith, 1929, p.161. Ōnishi Akio, “Hōmei and James: The Issue of the Point of View,” (「泡鳴と James」) Studies in English Language and Literature, 2, Society for the Studies in English Language and Literature, Kansai University, 1960, p. 75. 31 Iwano, Hōmei, The Woman who Takes Poison [『毒薬を飲む女』], in The Complete Works of Iwano Hōmei, vol. 2, Rinsen Shoten, 1994, pp. 136ff. Emphasis added. 32 Iwano, Hōmei, Development [『発展』], in The Complete Works of Iwano Hōmei, vol. 2, Rinsen Shoten, 1994, p. 30.

39 does know. This will perhaps explain why they survived the author’s revision, but the question about why they strike readers as slightly deviant when they do not violate any rule remains unanswered. This paradox, in my opinion, suggests a slight disaccord between Hōmei’s statements on his ideal and his actual practice. 4. Among the widely read textbooks on narratology is Mieke Bal’s Narratology. Bal starts the section on focalization with the following “axiom”: The Axiom of this section is that whenever events are presented, they are always presented from within a certain “vision.” […] I shall refer to the relations between the elements presented and the vision through which they are presented with the term focalization. Focalization is, then, the relation between the vision and that which is “seen.”33 Therefore, for Bal, the term “focalize” is a two-place predicate which takes the form of “x focalizes y,” where x is a focalizer and y, a focalized. Although the term has its origin in Genette’s theory, it is used in a very different way. Here is Genette’s complaint: […] in her statement of my position, Mieke Bal introduces ideas (focalizer, focalized) I never thought of using because they are incompatible with my conception of the matter.34 As seen in the first section of this paper, for Genette, a narrative being focalized means that it is told through a specific point of view and it means in turn that, in the case of internal focalization, the narrator does not tell what the point-of-view character does not know. Therefore, it is impossible to tell whether a narrative is focalized or not just by looking at one sentence. Yoshio is identified as a focalizer in many of Hōmei’s novels because all the sentences in them abstain from telling what he does not know. On the contrary, for Bal, Yoshio can be a focalizer if one sentence describes what Yoshio sees, hears, or feels. This is the difference in the conception of focalization between Genette and Bal. James believed “impression” is the key to the novelistic representation of “life,” which led him to employ the point-of-view not only in Genettian sense, but also in Bal’s. By doing so, James prepared a path for the modernist literature that emerged soon after his death, in which a character’s “consciousness” served as a screen where readers can perceive the fictional world. The similarities between James and Hōmei, both in their method and the underlying motives, suggest that Hōmei was an innovator of the novel form, in the same way that James was. Hōmei tried to do almost the same things as James did, but not as thoroughly as James, which may have been caused by his Genettian double-negation formula of the focalization. This may also explain why his works were subject to the criticism of his contemporaries.

33 Bal, Mieke, Narratology: Introduction to the Theory of Narrative, 3rd ed., University of Toronto Press, 2009, p. 145. 34 Genette, Gérard, Narrative Discourse Revisited, translated by Jane E. Lewin, Cornell University Press, 1988, pp. 72ff.

REFERENCES: Bal, M. 2009. Narratology: Introduction to the Theory of Narrative, 3rd ed., University of Toronto Press, Toronto. Barthes, R. 1989. “The Reality Effect”, in The Rustle of Language, translated by Richard Howard, University of California Press. Genette, G. 1980. Narrative Discourse: an Essay in Method, translated by E. Lewin, Cornell University Press. ——. 1982. “Frontiers of Narrative”, in Figures of Literary Discourse, translated by Alan Sheridan, Colombia University Press, New York. ——. 1988. Narrative Discourse Revisited, translated by Jane E. Lewin, Cornell University Press. Iwano, H. 1994-97.The Complete Works of Iwano Hōmei［『岩野泡鳴全集』], 17 vols., Rinsen Shoten. James, H. 1984. “The Art of Fiction”, in Literary Criticism, vol 2, The Library of America. Kitano, A. 1996. “Rethinking Hōmei’s ‘Monistic Description’” ［「泡鳴の『一元描写』論を見直す」], Monthly report ［「月報」] 6, in The Complete Works of Iwano Hōmei, vol.11, Rinsen Shoten. Lubbock, P. 1958. The Craft of Fiction, Jonathan Cape and Harrison Smith, 1929. Nakamura, M. 1958. A Discussion of the Fūzoku-novel [ 『風俗小説論』 ], Shinchō Sha. Noguchi, T. 1980. Japanese Language in Novels ［『小説の日本語』］, Chūō- Kōron Sha. Ōnishi, A. 1960. “Hōmei and James: The Issue of the Point of View,” (「泡鳴と James」) Studies in English Language and Literature, 2, Society for the Studies in English Language and Literature, Kansai University. Tayama, K. 1937. “Byōsha Ron” ［「描写論」］,in The Complete Works of Katai ［『定本花袋全集』］, vol.15, Rinsen Shoten. Tokuda, S. 2001. “How to Depict the Characters” ［『人物描写法』］, in The Complete Works of Shūsei Tokuda ［『徳田秋聲全集』］, vol. 24, Yagi Shoten. Yoshida, S. and Wada K. (eds.). 1972.Japanese Modern Literary Criticism Reader ［『近代文学評論大系』 ], vol. 3, Kadokawa Shoten.

41 A STUDY OF SHANGHAI MAGAZINE, AND ITS PROPONENTS, FOCUSING ON ITS LITERARY COLUMN

ChienHui CHUANG

Abstract: Prewar Shanghai was characterized by harmony as well as conflict between people and cultures. Against this historical context, Shanghai (『上海』), a Japanese-language magazine, was founded and published between 1913 and 1945. Its content was varied, ranging from translated articles from Chinese newspapers to poems. Thus, Shanghai affords a valuable opportunity for examining interactions between Chinese intellectuals and Japanese residents in Chinese cities. However, the magazine has not been sufficiently studied from this perspective. Two of its core proponents, Cheng Hsiao-hsu (鄭孝胥) and Munakata Kotarō (宗方小太郎), evidently played an influential role in prewar Chinese–Japanese relations. In this paper, I apply discursive analysis of Shanghai’s contents, focusing on its literary column. I focus on the initial stage of Shanghai’s development under its first editor, Nishimoto Shōzō (西本省三), aiming to shed light on the ideas and concepts underlying the literary activity of Chinese and Japanese contributors to the magazine. I also examine the magazine’s standing within the prevailing Shanghai society to reveal relationships between people and the ideas they exchanged via this unique medium during the period leading up to the war. Keywords: Shanghai, Pan-Asianism, Colonialism, Chinese characters

The first issue of the magazine Shanghai (『上海』) was published in February 1913. Its charter members were from China and Japan. Within the network of people associated with the magazine’s production, Munakata Kotarō (宗方小太郎, 1864-1923), a journalist, China expert, as well as a spy from the Japanese Navy Ministry was a key individual. Munakata’s ex-colleague and friend, Nishimoto Shōzō (西本省三, 1878-1928), played an important role with respect to Shanghai’s editorial column. Sahara Tokusuke, (佐原篤介, 1874–1932), an active Japanese journalist working in China, and a spy, was the magazine’s editor and named publisher. On the Chinese side, Cheng Hsiao-hsu (鄭孝胥, 1860-1938), a Chinese statesman and calligrapher, was a member of the group. In 1932, almost 20 years later after Shanghai was launched, Cheng became the Prime Minister of Manchuguo. In 1913, these individuals, who were connected with Japanese

 Osaka University, Specially Appointed Assistant professor

42 groups advocating Pan-Asianism, established a society called the Chun-Shen Society (春申社1) in Shanghai to publish Shanghai.

Shanghai was circulated in both China and Japan. Because the rosters of its members and sponsors are not available, it is difficult to obtain information on the economic conditions and financial resources of this magazine. Its advertisement column regularly featured promotional materials on Japanese companies, local shops owned by Japanese managers, and announcements by Tōadōbun Shoin (東亜同文書院), a school established in 1900 by Munakata Kotarō. Shanghai’s first editor, Nishimoto, also taught at this school before becoming the magazine’s editor. Tōadōbun Shoin was established to provide Chinese affairs experts. Reynolds (1989) called Tōadōbun Shoin a facility for “training young Chinese hands”. Saaler and Szpilman (2011) have discussed this facility and noted the following:

Subservience to government needs and a single-minded focus on nonideological professional support for Japan’s role in China characterized the Tōa Dōbunkai’s later development. This was remunerated by funding from government sources, and, after 1923, the society was also guaranteed receipt of specially assigned revenues from the indemnity funds from the Boxer uprising of 1900. The lion’s share of this money went to the single most important (and successful) project ever undertaken by the Tōa Dōbunkai, the East Asia Common Culture Academy (Tōa Dōbun Shoin). This facility for “training young Chinese hands” (Reynolds 1989) was set up in 1900 in Nanjing but soon moved to Shanghai. There, Japanese students enrolled in a three- to four-year training program (including a field trip assignment) to acquire the linguistic and technical skills needed to operate in China as entrepreneurs or intelligence agents (or both at the time). In this way they would fulfill the society’s third goal of “investigating the current state of affairs in China and deciding on appropriate action.” Many more than 5,000 Japanese students who passed through the Tōa Dōbun Shoin worked in Japan as (military) interpreters, mediators, and managers for government agencies, thus preparing the ground for their China operations2.

The connection between Munakata and Nishimoto could also be traced back to this facility. As previously mentioned, Nishimoto was a teacher at Tōadōbun Shoin before first becoming the advisor3 of The Shanghai Mercury in 1910 and, subsequently, the editor of Shanghai. From 19044, Sahara served as the

1 Shen, an abbreviation of Shanghai, named after Lord Chun-Shen (春申君, died 238 BC). 2 Sven Saaler, Christopher W. A. Szpilman. Pan-Asianism, A Documentary History 1850–1920, Vol.1, Rowman & Littlefield Pub Inc., 2011-4, p.118. 3 It is a misconception that Shen Bao (申報), the most influential Chinese newspaper in modern China recruited Nishimoto as the president of The Shanghai Mercury. 4 Hua JingShuo. ‘Sahara Tokusuke to Mantetsu kogaisya jiki no “Sheng-ching Shih-pao”’,

43 president and vice-chief editor of The Shanghai Mercury. Hua (2013) has pointed out that Sahara was successful at developing journalism as a business, and was consequently invited to manage several Japanese newspapers5. Although most of the key members of the Chun-Shen Society were active within the Japanese community in China, and supported Japanese groups advocating Pan- Asianism and the Japanese military, Nishimoto, Shanghai’s main editor, was active beyond the context of Japanese imperialism in China. The reason for launching Shanghai was stated in a short column marking the occasion of its launch as follows:

We share common ideas within a community called the Chun-Shen Society. We have researched all kinds of issues in Shanghai, sharing opinions with each other. Now, we would like to express these to the public for the [first] time. We look forward to receiving responses from knowledgeable intellectuals. Toward this end, we are publishing this weekly newspaper6, Shanghai. We do not presume to have lofty ambitions of developing a large project. We only hope to express our observations and to exchange knowledge with intellectuals, internationally. Our hope, then, is to develop Shanghai as a public window that is accessible to people in China and in foreign countries7.

Next to the above article, an editorial article titled “Words from Shanghai” (「滬上小言」) contained the following:

Members of the Chun-Shen Society publish this weekly newspaper Shanghai. We take economic problems in China to be the meridian and political problems as parallels. We want to express the truth. This means that if the truth is “left”, then we will write it as “left”; if the truth is “right,” then we will take it as being “right.” The arguments are offered to the readers. All in all, as people who work in journalism, we are responsible for giving information that is not just about stories and the current state of affairs, but also includes materials for readers to evaluate. We also have our own opinions, arguments and claims. We do not claim to comment about all kinds of problems in China, but we cannot help expressing ourselves. In this way, the ‘Words from Shanghai’ column is a corner for expressing our opinions in order to provide reference materials for readers.

Ryukoku Daigaku Daigakuin Syakaigakukenkyuka Kenkyukiyō, No. 20, 2013-3, p. 30. 5 Ibid. 6 This article was written by Shanghai’s editor, Nishimoto, who referred to Shanghai as either a newspaper or a magazine. 7 “On the Occasion of Publication”, Shanghai no.1, Shanghai: Chun-Shen Society, p.1. Unless otherwise indicated, all translations from Chinese/ Japanese into English are mine, ChienHui Chuang.

44 This article shows that the editor emphasized the role of the editorial column as a source of reference materials for readers. At the end of the editorial article in the first issue of the magazine, the following passage can be found:

We keenly admit that the first principle of peace in Asia should lie in the following state: Chinese people cooperating with each other, making China a strong country, a country that can stand alongside the great powers in the world, avoid interference from any country, and evolve out of national crises on its own. Japan truly hopes to establish the foundation of Asian peace. We base our perceptions of problems in China on this view. Our magazine, Shanghai also follows this policy. Our Chinese and foreign readers should also promote the idea of maintaining Asian peace through mutually harmonious relations with other countries, and avoiding disturbances. With the publication of this first issue, we have to declare our principles and intentions clearly.

The editors declared their stance, as well as their belief in facilitating China’s right to self-determination and contributing to peace in Asia. However, although they strongly declared their mandate, apart from the editorial and literary columns of Shanghai, its content was not necessarily focused on the comparison with such columns from other Japanese general magazines or newspapers published in China. Nakashita (1974)8 has identified four periods relating to Japanese journalistic publications in China extending from the late Qing dynasty up to the end of the Meiji period. This categorization is based on the language of publication, circulation, and region of publication. The first period of Japanese-language publications is the one leading up to the Sino-Japanese war of 1894. The second period of Chinese-language publications extended from the Sino-Japanese war to the Boxer Rebellion of 1900. The third phase was characterized by an equal proportion of publications in Japanese and Chinese, and spanned the time period after the Boxer Rebellion and until the Russo- Japanese war of 1904. The final phase of Japanese-language publications was from 1905 (after the Russo-Japanese war), through the Xinhai Revolution of 1911, up to the end of the Meiji period in 1912. According to Nakashita (1974), the first phase entailed gathering information in China and disseminating it to Japanese readers. The second phase, of publication in Chinese, was associated with the rise of Japanese imperialism. During the third phase, the Chinese people became wary of imperialistic ideas contained within Chinese-language journalism controlled by Japanese individuals, resulting in a decrease in the circulation of publications in Chinese. During the fourth stage, there was an increase in Japanese-language publications because of the rise in the number of Japanese residents in China. Thus, during the first period delineated by Nakashita, China and Japan were united in opposition to the West. However, after the Sino-Japanese war, the rise of

8 Nakashita Masaharu. ‘Nihonjin keiei shinbun shoshi (Ni Chu kankei shi 8)’, Kikan Gendai Chugoku, No.11, 1974-9, pp. 22-37

45 Japanese imperialism transformed this unity. Nakashita (1969)9 also identified a characteristic of Chinese-language journalistic publications by Tōadōbun Shoin. Specifically, Nakashita cited a biography 10 of the first principal of Tōadōbun Shoin, Nezu Hajime ( 根津一, 1860–1927). This biography mentioned the necessity of journalistic publishing in the Chinese language within China as a propaganda method after the Sino-Japanese war. Generally, Chinese-language media published by Japanese in China were intended as propaganda for Japan. Nakashita further pointed out that to counter the Qing government’s antipathy, most of the Chinese-language media controlled by Japanese supported Chinese royalists. The readership of Japanese-language magazines and newspapers published in China was mostly limited to Japanese-speaking people. Consequently, after the Sino-Japanese war, Japan invested in Chinese-language journalistic publications rather than in Japanese ones for the purpose of propaganda.

We now turn to the case of Shanghai. This magazine was published in 1913, after the fourth period described by Nakashita (1970). The Japanese community was established in Shanghai after this period. The advertisements placed in Shanghai were provided by various businesses, including a company selling drinks (Mizuya Cider), banks, restaurants, local shops, and a milk delivery company. In addition to the advertisement column, advertisements were placed in the lower portion of every page. The first page of the first issue of Shanghai included an advertisement by the Shanghai branch of The Bank of Taiwan (台湾銀行). It stated the following: ‘We will try our best to listen to your reasons and suit your convenience. If you need to contact us, please give our manager a phone call.” This advertisement appealed to residents of Shanghai. We may infer that Shanghai’s publishers assumed that its main readership comprised Japanese- speaking people residing in Shanghai. However, if we turn to the editorial column, we observe two features. The first is an emphasis on the importance of unity between Japan and China. The second is a critique of republicanism. Most of Shanghai’s key members were connected with the Tōadōbun Shoin. Because Shanghai’s main readership was assumed to be Japanese, the question raised is why classic Chinese poetry, which was viewed as being antiquated by the general Japanese public at the time, was published in Shanghai’s literary column. Many journalistic publications of Japanese groups supporting Pan-Asianism included classic Chinese poetry in their literary columns to emphasize a common culture (dōbun, 同文) shared by China and Japan. 11 Furthermore, the magazine’s

9 Nakashita, Masaharu. ‘Bojyutsu no henpo zengo no Nikkei kanji shi’, Toyo Daigaku Daigakuinkiyo, No. 6, 1969, pp. 123-143. 10 Tōa Dōbun Shoin koyukai dosokai. San-Shu Nezu sensei den, Tokyo: Nezu sensei denki hensanbu, 1930-5, p. 137. 11 For example, the magazine The Light of East-Asia (『東亜の光』also『東亜之光』, Ex oriente lux) was initially published by Kōdōkan, a religious group. When this magazine came under the management of the East-Asia Society (東亜協会), a group that supported

46 editorial articles fueled Chinese republicanism through their support of the royalists. Under these circumstances, we may posit that Shanghai was a Japanese propaganda media. However, the question remains as to why this magazine used Japanese rather than Chinese characters, or even English.12 Moreover, the Qing dynasty had collapsed 2 years prior to 1913, so there was no longer a need for Japanese journalists in China to extend political support for the monarchy. Japanese imperialists, who employed journalism as a propaganda method, did not support the restoration of the Qing dynasty after China became a republic. A memoir written by one of the key proponents of Shanghai reveals that Sahara Tokusuke had the idea of establishing the Chun-Shen Society to introduce the Chinese revolution to Japan.13 However, although the magazine was published with the intention of discussing the Chinese revolution, from every angle, its editorial articles actually supported the restoration of Qing dynasty and strongly criticized Chinese republicanism. The reason for this may be connected with Nishimoto, Shanghai’s key editor.

Nishimoto was born in 1878 in Kumamoto, Japan. He went to China in 1900 to study at Nanjing Tōadōbun Shoin. He subsequently became a Chinese teacher at the Shanghai Tōadōbun Shoin. Nishimoto was known among Japanese residents in China to be an expert in Chinese affairs (「支那通」) during his time. His grounding in the Chinese classics was strongly influenced by his teacher, Shen Zi-Pei (沈子培, 1850–1922). Shen was a surviving retainer of the Qing dynasty and a Qing loyalist. Through their roles as teacher and student, Nishimoto became acquainted with Cheng Hsiao-hsu. Cheng was active in efforts to restore the Qing dynasty. He and Nishimoto were founder members of the

Pan-Asianism, the name of the magazine was changed from the original『東亜の光』 (using Hiragana script) to『東亜之光』, which uses only Chinese characters. Its literary column also changed to accommodate post-classical Chinese poems. 12 Morita (2004) has pointed out that a shift occurred after World War I, with the Japanese investing in English-language journalism (Morida Takako, ‘Nihon Rikugun No Chugoku Ni Okeru Shinbun Sōju’, Tokyo Daigaku Nihonshigaku Kiyō, No. 8, 2004-3, pp. 19–33). Munakata, a member of the Chun-Shen Society, established the Eastern News Agency (東方通信社), which was published as a daily newspaper. Eastern News (東方通信) was available in three languages: Japanese, Chinese, and English. 13 The following excerpt is taken from the memoir: ‘In the new year of 1913, Munakata, the late Shimada Kazuo, Nishimoto, the late Endo Rintarō of Osaka Asahi Shimbun, and I gathered for a meal at the late Sahara Tokusuke’s home. Sahara raised the question that in view of the situation, how about publishing a magazine with respect to Chinese politics and the economy? He said that since there was considerable interest in the Chinese revolution in Japan, we could do this if the members present today compiled our research or did an investigation together. In this way, people came to this place as members of the publication group. Then, when talking about the name of the group, because Shanghai Society is too common a name, we took the old name of Shanghai as the name of Chun- Shen Society, and decided to publish a weekly magazine from this community” (Hatano Hiroshi。 ‘Nishimoto san no omoide’, Shirokawa Nishimoto den, Shanghai: Ashizawa Tamiharu, 1934-7, p. 86).

47 Chun-Shen Society. Cheng and Shen were both Qing loyalists and were well grounded in Confucianism. Hata Hiroshi, a member of the Chun-Shen Society noted that Nishimoto’s view of China was influenced by his relationship with Shen. According to Hata’s memoir, Nishimoto often remarked to Japanese members of the Chun-Shen Society that: “China has ‘morality and justice’ [道義, Jpn: dōgi, chi: daoyi] in its culture. Because the maintenance of Dōgi may retain China and its people, Republicanism is not suited to China. There must be imperial government.”14 In Hata’s words, one day, Nishimoto was discussing with a journalist working for Osaka Asahi Shimbun who favored Kuomintang (國民黨, Chinese Nationalits Party, also KMT),15 and expressed strong disapproval for Nishimoto’s praise of the monarchy. Nishimoto responded that people living on the Japanese mainland had been misguided by the revolutionary group’s propaganda, and were thus eager to sympathize with them. However, because he (Nishimoto) had been living in Shanghai for a long time, he knew a lot about the KMT and had become disillusioned with them.16 One of Nishimoto’s students recollected his teacher’s words as follows: “Restoration of the Qing is my belief.”17 Shen and Cheng were considered traditionalists and their reactionary thoughts were attributed to maladjustment to the new era. Shen and Cheng shared Nishimoto’s perspective on Chinese reform, which was based on Confucianism. The Chen-Shen Society published at least four Japanese-language books written by Nishimoto in the 1920s.18 One concerned the Kangxi Emperor of the Qing dynasty, and one was a biography of Shen, lauding him as a great Confucian. The remaining two were related to Nishimoto’s investigations in China and his theories about the prevailing Chinese philosophy. In his book titled Chinese Ideology and the Present-day (Shina shiso to gendai『支那思想と現代』, 1921), Nishimoto expressed his ideas about the role of Confucianism in uniting Japan and China. He stated:

Confucianism, within Eastern culture, is the central functional idea in our speech and behavior. Through repeated contact with Western ideology, we must become better versed in Confucianism. The necessity of using noble Chinese Confucianism to oppose Western civilization and the attempt to combine Eastern and Western ideologies came to be more eagerly accepted after World War I. This means that the movement of refreshing Confucianism regarding the position of Japan and China is determined by

14 Ibid., p. 54 15 KuoMinTang (國民黨) was a revolutionary party founded by Sun Yat-Sen after the XinHai revolution in 1911. Members of the party overthrew the Qing dynasty and established the Republic of China. 16 Ibid, p. 54. 17 Hita Susumu. ‘Senshi keigyō: ko Nishimoto Shirakawa no tsuioku’, Nishimoto Shirakawa den, Shanghai: Ashizawa Minji, 1934-7, p. 44. 18 Shina shisō to gendai (1921), Gendai shina shiteki kosatsu (1922), Daiju Shin Shi-bai (1923), Kōki taitei (1925)

48 the high ideals of people wishing to oppose the West, and we may say that the situation has made us close in practice to the movement.19

Nishimoto adopted innovation in Confucianism as a method for opposing the influence of Western civilization. He revealed the necessity of this movement to the Japanese. Nishimoto’s reason for supporting the restoration of the Qing dynasty was also based on Confucianism. His ideas regarding the renewal of Confucianism and the restoration of the Qing dynasty do not appear to have had wide appeal among the Japanese or the Chinese. Tachibana Shiraki (橘樸, 1881– 1945) was an active journalist working in northeastern China before World War II. Prior to World War II, the following expression was well known within Japanese journalism in China: “Tachibana of the North, Nishimoto of the South.” Tachibana criticized Nishimoto’s view as being “a schematism based on kingcraft ideology and monarchy, using the claim of the Qing restoration and Confucianism’s restoration movement as media for searching the spiritual negotiation between Japan and China20.” The Chinese side even sent a telegram to another newspaper, questioning the motivation underlying the speech issued by the Chun-Shen Society commending the Qing restoration. Nishimoto responded to this criticism in a long Chinese-language pamphlet. Chinese critics had refuted the Society’s argument as being based on an emotional attachment to the Qing dynasty. In his retort, Nishimoto countered that there was no reason for them as non-Chinese individuals (members of the Chun-Shen Society) to be emotionally associated with the Qing dynasty. He emphasized the importance of the Confucianist world order for China. The Qing had made a great contribution to China’s cultural program, and their efforts could be applied to modern China. Thus, China should be given the opportunity to contact with cultural affairs internationally. He claimed that restoring the Qing would not only contribute to China’s future, but was also important globally.21

In March 1921, Nishimoto sent a secret request to the Consulate-General of Japan in Shanghai, requesting support for the group’s new research community, the Asian Science Research Society (亜洲学術研究会). Members of this community included his teacher Shen and Chinese intellectuals who contributed Chinese poems for the overseas Chinese readership in Shanghai’s literary column. Gu Hong-Ming (also known as Thompson Ku, 辜鴻銘, 1857– 1928), who was then a noted Chinese scholar in the Western world, was also a supporter of the group. By exploring innovation in Confucianism, they hoped to gather Chinese and Japanese scholars together for the task of compiling the 4000-year history of “Great China” (「大支那」). This was intended to promote the development of a spiritual center of Confucianism in Japan and China. Nishimoto used the example of a German missionary to demonstrate the risk of

19 Nishimoto Shōzō. ‘Jijo’, Shina shisō to gendai, Shanghai: Shunshinsha, 1921, p. 1. 20 Yamamoto Hideo. Tachibana Shiraki, Tokyo: Chuōkōronsha, 1977. 21 Nishimoto Shōzō. ‘Fupi lun yu yudeng zhi zhuzhang’ [Chinese-language], Nishimoto Shirakawa den, Shanghai: Ashizawa Minji, 1934-7, pp. 117-128.

49 an absence of metaphysical reliability. The Germany missionary had studied Confucianism and Taoism for years in China, and introduced his efforts to the German academic world. He pointed out that the prevailing German academy, which was suffering under the sway of the doctrine of scientific supremacy, was seeking spiritual comfort.22 Moreover, Nishimoto clarified his reasons for being a student of Shen in his book Great Confucian Scholar Shen Zi-Pei (Jpn: Daiju Shin Shi-bai 『大儒沈子培』, 1923). One of these underlying reasons was the aspiration to establish a Confucian country within Asia to oppose Western Christian countries.23 His ideology was based on his friendship with surviving retainers of the Qing dynasty. However, it would not be appropriate to consider this group as comprising Asian traditionalists or reactionary scholars. Du (2011)24 has noted that Gu Hong-Ming’s idea of “a spiritual Asia” was based on a “humanity-centered Confucianism.” Du argued that Gu’s “interpretation of Confucianism” was intended to “maintain their cultural independence and universalist claims of values.” Thus, there was a commonality between Nishimoto’s and Gu’s ideas. However, whereas Gu presented his ideology to the Western world, Nishimoto attempted to introduce his ideology to the Japanese.

Takeuchi (1963) noted about Pan-Asianism as follows:

Pan-Asianism does not completely correspond to Expansionism and Hegemonism…nor with Nationalism. And of course, it does not correspond to the Leftist Internationalism. But it overlaps in some parts with all of the above, and especially is close to Expansionism. We may say, with some accuracy, that Pan-Asianism was one of the fruits of Expansionism after the Meiji Restoration. Furthermore, we suggest that Expansionism did not directly give rise to Pan-Asianism. Expansionism yielded the confrontation between theories of national sovereignty and democratic rights, subsequently leading to a trend of confrontation between Europeanization and national characteristics. Pan-Asianism was born of the conflict between these twin-like trends25.

Shanghai’s proponents were those who defended Eastern traditions: Confucianism and monarchy rather than Pan-Asianism. The movement of Shanghai resembled those portrayed in the thoughts of Rabindranath Tagore (1861–1941), and Okakura Kakuzō (岡倉覚三 also known as Okakura Tenshin 岡倉天心 , 1862–1913), a Japanese art historian and philosopher who was

22 JACAR（Japan Center for Asian Historical Records）Ref. B03040625600, B.1.3.1. 23 Nishimoto Shōzō. Daiju Shin Shi-bai, Shanghai: Shunshin sha, 1923. 24 Chunmei Du. “Gu Hongming as a Cultural Amphibian: A Confucian Universalist Critique of Modern Western Civilization,” Journal of World History, vol. 22 (2011), pp. 715–746. 25 Takeuchi Yoshimi. ‘Nihon no ajiashugi’, Gendai nihon shisō taikei, Vol.9, Tokyo: Chikumashobō, 1963-8.

50 influenced by Tagore. Both of these intellectuals endorsed the idea of Asia’s unity.26

Conclusion

Nishimoto’s support for the restoration of the Qing dynasty was not based on a rejection of liberal modernity. His encounter with Shen led him to become aware of the risk of Western materialism. However, the ideas of Gu, Shen, and Nishimoto were not accepted by people in Japan and China. Nishimoto dedicated his life to Shanghai and attempted to spread his ideas among the Japanese. However, because of the context at that time, his efforts became enmeshed with Japanese imperialism. During World War I, Nishimoto sheltered a revolutionary Indian, Tarak Nath Das (1884–1958), who was blacklisted by the British government, in the office of the Chen-Shen Society 27 . Shanghai had members such as Munakata and Sahara who supported the Japanese government’s ideology of Pan-Asianism. Conversely, Chinese members and intellectuals connected through Nishimoto aspired to deploy Confucianism in the struggle against Western civilization. It is thus important to separate Shanghai and its literary column from the ideology of Pan-Asianism. They were individuals from China and Japan who lauded Confucianism and deeply appreciated classical Chinese prose and poetry. They had congregated in Shanghai for different reasons and purposes, but at a minimum, we may conclude that during the magazine’s initial phase when it was in the charge of Nishimoto, its literary column was made up of the contributions of intellectuals who were searching for areas of common understanding between China and Japan to fight against Western influence. Nishimoto’s articles suggest that he saw the spiritual unity of China and Japan as stemming from their shared Confucian culture. Like Nishimoto, the contributors to Shanghai’s literary column also admired Confucianism and enjoyed classical Chinese prose and poetry. The case of Shanghai should not be taken as merely reflecting “Pan-Asianism”, as it was actually closer to the movement of the awakening of Asia and the movement of the Asiatic continent against European aggressors.

Appendix: Diagram of the relationships between the contributors to Shanghai’s literary column

26 Okakura’s expressed his thoughts about the unity of Asia in his book The Ideals of the East with Special Reference to the Art of Japan (London: J. Murray : 1903). Tagore’s idea of Asian unity has been explored in Stephen N. Hay’s Asian Ideas of East and West: Tagore and his Critics in Japan, and India, Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1970. 27 Ibid, pp. 87–88.

REFERENCES:

Chen, Zu-En. 2010. Shanghai ni ikita Nihonjin: bakumatsukara haisen made, Tokyo: Taishukan shoten, 2010-7. Translated by Ashizawa Chie. Daigakushi hensan iinkai. 1982. Shanhai Tōa Dōbun Shoin daigakushi, Tokyo: Koyukai, 1982-5. Fujita, Yoshihisa. 2007. Tōadōbun shoin sei ga kirokusshita kindai Chugoku, Nagoya: Arumu shuppan, 2007-3. Fujita, Yoshihisa. 2011. Tōadōbun shoin sei ga kirokusshita kindai Chugoku no chiiki zou, Kyoto: Nakanishiya shuppan, 2011-3. Fujita, Yoshihisa. 2012. Nicchu nikakeru: Tōadōbun shoin no gunzo, Nagoya: Chunichi shinbunsha, 2012-3. Ge, Gong-Zhen. 1927.Zhongguo baoxue shi, Shanghai: Shangwu yinshuguan. Kojima, Shinji&Ōsato, Hiroaki&Namiki, Yorihisa. 2001. Niju seiki no chugoku kenkyu: sono isan o do ikasu ka, Tokyo: Kenbun shuppan, 2001-6. Kurita, Hisaya. 1993. Shanhai Tōa Dōbun Shoin: Nitchu o kakento shita otokotachi, Tokyo: Shinjinbutsuouraisha, 1993-12.

52 Nakashita, Masaharu (1996). Shinbun ni miru Nicchu kankeishi: Chugoku no Nihonjin keieishi, Tokyo: Kenbun,1996-10. Ōsato, Hiroaki& Li, Ting-Jiang. 2013. Shingaikakumei to Asia: Kanagawa daigaku deno Shingai 100 nen shinpo hokokushu, Tokyo: Ochanomizu shobo, 2013-3. Sun, Xiao-Meng.2010. ‘Tenshin Yōhō [《庸報》, Chinese-language newspaper] (1926-1944) no hensen to henshu hōshin nitsuite no kōsatsu’, Ryukoku daigaku shakaigakubu kiyō, no. 37, Kyoto ： Ryukoku daigaku shakaigakubu gakkai, 2010-11, pp. 63-81. Taishikorosha denki hensankai. 1936. Taishi kaikoroku, Tokyo: Taishikorosha denki hensankai, 1936-4. Tōa Dōbun kai. 1968. Taishi kaikoroku. Meiji hyakunenshi sosho, vol.69, 70, Tokyo: Hara shobo,1968-6. Tōabunka kenkyusho. 1988. Tōa Dōbun kaishi、Tokyo : Kazankai, 1988-2. Webb, A. K. 2008. ‘The Countermodern Moment: A World-Historical Perspective on the Thought of Rabindranath Tagore, Muhammad Iqbal, and Liang Shuming’. Journal of World History 19/ 2, 2008. Yao, Hong. 2010. ‘Akutagawa Ryunosukei to Shanghai niokeru Nihongo shinbun: shokan ni shuzōsareta shinbun kirinuki wo megutte’, Bungaku kenkyu ronshu, no. 28, Ibaraki：Chikuba daigaku hikaku riron gakkai, 2010-2, pp. 79-94.

※The research was financially supported by the Sasakawa Scientific Research Grant from The Japan Science Society.

53 REPRSENTATION OF TAMASHII IN REFLECTIONS ON CONTEMPORARY TALES BY MATSUTANI MIYOKO

Junko ABE

Abstract: This paper is a study of the representation of the tamashii (spirit or soul), in « contemporary tales » gathered in the 1980s by Matsutani Miyoko (1926-2015). These « contemporary tales » follow well-defined patterns. Six types of tamashii stories are identified. Some recount, amongst others, that just before death, the tamashii leaves the body to say goodbye to its loved ones and friends. Some tell that the tamashii of a dead person comes to pick up a departing tamashii. Or that the tamashii is reincarnated into the body of a baby so that it continues to exist. This concept of tamashii is extremely reassuring. People do not die alone. The tamashii of the dead person stays near its family and loved ones and protects them. This concept is very different from the rational vision of death according to which nothing remains after someone has died. Keywords: tamashii (spirit or soul), contemporary tales, vision of the death

Matsutani Miyoko (1926-2015) is primarily known as a children’s author. Her book The little Momo 『ちいさいモモちゃん』 (1964), about the adventures of a little girl and her friends, sold six millions copies and delighted a generation of children and their parents. Even today, all Japanese know Matsutani Miyoko. She has written numerous stories, some inspired by folk traditions. The child who became a shell (1951)『貝になった子供』and Tarô, son of a dragon (1960)『龍の子太郎』, both won literary prizes.1 What is less known about Matsutani is that she traveled extensively to remote villages, meeting storytellers. She collected scores of stories, which she later published in several collections. In 1978, she also created an association, the Circle of Japanese tales 日本民話の会. The stories she collected include several genres-- tales, legends, myths, and so-called contemporary tales 現代の民話, which are the focus of this paper. Matsutani gathered contemporary tales in quite an original way. In 1978, she founded the magazine Cahier of tales『民話の手帖』, in which a prepaid postcard was inserted. Readers were invited to write down a story they knew and send it to the Cahier of tales.

 Assistant professor at the National Institute for Oriental Languages and Civilizations (INALCO) and researcher at Centre for Japanese Studies (CEJ), Paris, France. 1 Cf. Complete works of Matsutani Miyoko『松谷みよ子の本』, 11 volumes, Kôdansha, 1997.

54 Each issue of the magazine had a theme. The first was the tengu 天狗, a supernatural creature with wings that lives in the mountains. The idea was a success, as people sent hundreds of stories, which would constitute the basis of the twelve volumes of Reflections on contemporary tales (1985-1996)2. Each volume of the series contains from one to three different themes. We first have the traditional recurrent themes of Japanese tales, such as the yôkai 妖怪 (tengu, kappa 河童, wolf 狼, tanuki 狸, a sort of raccoon, cat 猫), and the kami kakushi (kidnapping by kami). Two volumes were dedicated to the Pacific war, because a lot of stories are related to this tragic moment of Japanese history. Three volumes deal with mysterious things or entities occurring in modern devices or inventions such as photography, television, trains, recording studios and so forth. The two final volumes are about tamashii 魂 tales. Let us first give a definition of tamashii. In Japanese, tamashii corresponds to “spirit” or “soul”, but this differs from the English term. First, the tamashii resides in the body of a human being. Second, unlike in the West where the soul does not leave a living body, the tamashii does. In some tales, the person is conscious of the departure of his or her tamashii and reports what he or she sees or hears while the tamashii is flying away. The tamashii that left the body can be seen in the form of a will-o'-the-wisp 火の玉 or the person him/herself. The tamashii of a dead person takes the form of a will-o'-the-wisp or of a ghost. This interpretation is close to that of a ghost or phantom in Western culture. This study is concerned with several chapters dedicated to the tamashii. I believe that the tamashii stories provide a unique opportunity to observe and better understand contemporary beliefs and ideas surrounding life and death in Japanese popular culture, which exist outside of the institutional religions, i.e. Buddhism and Shintô. The following chapters of Reflections on contemporary tales were chosen as the primary body for this research: “Will-o’-the-wisp“「火の玉」(volume 4), “Out-of-body experience 「抜け出した魂」 “ (vol.4), “Announcement of death“「死の知らせ」 (vol.5), “Visit to the hereafter“「あの世へ行った話」 (vol.5), “Supernatural stories from the frontline“「軍隊の怪談」(vol.2) . The term "contemporary tales 現代の民話" could be misleading, since a “tale” is generally assumed to be something old, which has been transmitted orally from generation to generation. Matsutani Miyoko comments on the “contemporary tales” as follows:

These are stories told like this, as they come, but following well-defined patterns, as tales did in ancient times. They spread within one region, and people say "these things really happened."3

2 Reflections on contemporary tales 『現代民話考』 , 12 volumes, Chikuma bunko, Chikuma shobô, 1985-1996. 3 Contemporary tales『現代の民話』, MATSUTANI Miyoko, Chûkô shinsho, Chûo kôron,

So these stories are definitely contemporary but firmly rooted in tradition. Initially, the stories start as rumours, then turn into tales that follow traditional patterns even when their contents are modern. For example, at the beginning of the Meiji era, after trains were introduced to Japan in 1872, stories concerning false trains began to appear. The legendary tanuki or kitsune, who usually transform themselves, were said to have changed into trains running at full speed and to have collided against a real train and crashed. Shortly after, this story was transformed and became the history of transformation contest (bakekurabe 化けくらべ)4 . Historically, Matsutani Miyoko is not the first writer to use the term “contemporary tale”. The first mention is by the dramatist Kinoshita Junji 木下順二 (1914-2006) who used the term in an essay called “Minwa kanken”「民話管見」(My humble thoughts on the folk tales), published in the journal Bungaku 『文学』 (Literature) in 19525. Kinoshita thought that he could use the idea for the framework of a play he was writing about contemporary society. Since everybody knew the story he wanted to use, he assumed that his play would acquire the strength of tradition. Shortly after Kinoshita, another writer, Yamashiro Tomoe 山代巴 (1912- 2004), started collecting "contemporary tales."6 We can also trace back the idea of “contemporary tale” to 1910, when the Tales of Tôno『遠野物語』 7 by Yanagita Kunio 柳田國男 (1875-1962), were published. Matsutani Miyoko integrated the Tales of Tôno in her Reflections on contemporary tales, claiming that they were nothing but contemporary tales. The will-o’-the-wisp is not considered as the incarnation of the soul in the West, cf. for instance the novel by Drieu La Rochelle named The Will-o’-the-wisp (Le Feu follet). In The Devil’s Pool (La Mare au diable) by George Sand, it is merely a natural phenomenon. On the contrary, in Japan, the will-o’-the-wisp is a physical manifestation of a tamashii. Even if it is commonly called hi no tama (fire ball) in standard language, various other names can be found in each region, attesting to its presence throughout Japan: tamashii, tamashi, hitodama, aonoro, hikarimono, chudama, chuntamashi, tamagai, shônendama, hikaridama, kechibi, kitsunebi or onibi. The morphology of will-o’-the-wisps is quite characteristic: they are red, orange, yellow, light blue or brown, and they fly away followed by a tail like shooting stars. 8

p.15. 4 Ibid., pp.33-44. 5 “Minwa Kanken「民話管見」(My humble thoughts on the folk tales)”, Bungaku『文学』(Literature), may 1952, Iwanami shoten. 6 Yamashiro, Tomoe 山代巴、Creators of tales『民話を生む人々』, Iwanami Shoten, 1958. 7 Yanagita, Kunio 柳田國男、Tales of Tôno『遠野物語』, 1910. 8 Reflections on contemporary tales, vol.4, pp.241-322.

56 I shall now analyse the representation of tamashii in Reflections of contemporary tales. I have identified six types of stories.

1) The appearance of tamashii, the harbinger of death

In different cultures, people have recounted strange phenomena heralding someone’s imminent death. In The Legend of Death (La Légende de la mort) by Anatole Le Braz (1859-1926), a collection of Breton tales of the 19th century, a chapter9 is devoted to the so-called intersigns (in French intersignes, the Breton word being seblanchou or sinalieu): a bowl, a plate, a glass falls down by itself and breaks; a rooster crows in the afternoon; a magpie stands on the roof of a house; a dog howls to death during the night. These are some of the numerous signs for the forthcoming death of a relative, friend or neighbour. Matsutani has also collected such stories in which death is announced by the same kind of intersigns: strangely croaking ravens; a Buddhist altar bell sounding by itself; a kakemono falling from the wall.10 In both cultures these are signs of death. The person to whom such signs appear is rarely the one who will die. However, the cases that interest us here are the appearance of the tamashii of the person who is going to die. This can be either through the will-o’-the-wisp or the shape of the person. The most notable story involving a will-o’-the-wisp is "The Will-o’-the-wisp of Shipwrecked sinners" by Iwasaki Toshie of Miyagi Prefecture:

It must have occurred during the 35th year of the Meiji era. A stranger rented the field in front of the Sasunohama cemetery. He mowed some stubble in and built a hut to live in, to cook and work. People report that every night, he used to hear the voices of many people, coming from the cemetery, going "ho, ho, ho, ho”. They also spoke: "blah, blah, blah, blah." Every night… - What is that? wondered the man, going out of his cabin and looking towards the cemetery. Then he saw bright things flying around above the tombs: hyoi, hyoi, hyoi, hyoi. - How strange, it really looks like a lot of people! It was a group of will-o’-the-wisp hovering around in a hubbub of voices and screams. The man then announced to the villagers of Sasunohama that a misfortune would happen. Shortly afterwards, the village’s fishing vessel was wrecked on a reef in Arahama, and almost all men of the village disappeared. After their funeral, the will-o’-the-wisp never showed up again. You see: it was indeed a premonition.11

9 The Legend of Death (La Légende de la mort), Anatole Le Braz, tome 1, 1912, Champion, pp.1-68. 10 Op.cit. vol.5, pp.189-266.

All stories like this follow a common scheme: someone sees the will-o’-the-wisp, they know that this is a harbinger of bad news and that something fatal is going to occur. Invariably, at the end, one or more people die. The storyteller tells this story in a lively way, using onomatopea and mimetic words. A similar story is "Procession at the Ten.yû Temple " also related by Iwasaki. In 1946, in Ogatsu village, a procession of will-o’-the-wisp used to go to the cemetery of the Ten.yû Temple every night. The villagers wondered what would happen. Shortly thereafter, a boat shuttling between surrounding villages was wrecked and thirty-eight villagers died. After the funeral, the will-o’-the-wisp never returned.12 There are many kinds of stories involving will-o’-the-wisps in Reflections on contemporary tales: the will-o’-the-wisp leaves the house of a dying person and goes to the cemetery; or it stays outside a house or appears to relatives or friends from a great distance... The tamashii also may take the shape of a person. Testimonies abound of families of soldiers who died in the Pacific War, seeing their son, brother or grandson, appear at the moment of death, which was called gyokusai 玉砕 (literally, a gem that breaks into a thousand pieces, an expression coined by the authorities to beautify their death).

2) The departing spirit says good-bye to its loved ones and friends

In the second type of story, the tamashii comes out of the body just before death to say goodbye to its loved ones and friends. They enjoy time together and shortly afterwards, it becomes clear died at the very same time. In this case, compared to the first type of stories, the tamashii has a good time with his or her family or friends. It is more than the simple announcement of death. This appears clearly in the following story, told by a resident of Kanagawa Prefecture:

Grandmother told me this story. It occurred around the 30th year of the Showa era. Not far from our house lived a sick old woman, who had been confined to bed for a long time. Every day, they helped her to take a bath, it was her great pleasure. One evening, we heard in our house: “Good evening, I came to take my bath.” Clearly, this was the voice of the old woman, however, she was quite unable to walk up to our house…

11 Matsutani, Miyoko 松谷みよ子・編著、Tales of Onagawa and Ogatsu, recounted by Iwasaki, Toshie 『女川・雄勝の民話・岩崎としゑの語り』, Kokudosha, 1987, pp.99-102. 12 Ibid., pp.190-193.

58 Grandmother listened carefully without moving from her bed. It was late. She heard the sound of the bath-tub lid taken away. A little later, it was put back. Then these words. "Thank you very much for the excellent bath! " Finally grandmother went up and saw the old woman leaving, dressed in a white yukata. She disappeared gradually. Two days later, people heard that the old woman had died. Takahashi Hideko, Kanagawa prefecture13

Note that in Japan, someone may invite you to their house to take a bath just as they would for a meal. In one of the Tales of Tôno, a tofu maker named Masa tells his father's death story. He had been away for a long time because of a serious illness, and could not move at all. He suddenly appeared on the communal works of Shimotochinai where he used to work. He greeted everyone, worked in the fields with others and came back home at dusk. At night, the workers heard that he had died at the time he was with them. They realized that they had been working near his tamashii.14 In numerous stories, the tamashii of the dying person goes to the family temple. For example, in the Tales of Tôno, a man goes to see the monk of the temple. The monk is surprised to see him, but receives him with courtesy and offers him tea. They talk, then the man leaves. Finding the behaviour of his visitor a little odd, the monk asks one of his young disciples to follow him. The man is seen walking in the street, greeting several people, then turning at the corner of a street, where he disappears. His death was announced that evening. The monk later noticed that the tea had fallen between the tatami joint where the man had put his cup.15 Stories of soldiers’ tamashii spending time with their mother at the time of their death are particularly poignant. Toshio, who fought at the front, appeared suddenly to his mother while she was sitting in the living room. He came to lay his head on her lap and fell asleep. His mother took the lice from his hair. Then he left. It was at that moment that he died at the Battle of 5th May in 1945 at Okinawa.16 Another soldier came home reciting the sutras in front of the house’s altar. Another one arrived hungry. When his mother turned back with the rice balls and a cup of green tea that she had prepared for him, he had gone. Yet another soldier arrived in his military uniform, completely soaked. At that time he died on a sinking boat.17

13 Op.cit., vol.4, pp.380-381. 14 Tale No. 86, Op.cit. 15 Tale No. 87, Op.cit. 16 Op.cit, vol.5, pp.318-319. 17 Ibid, pp.320-327.

59 An eminent anthropologist, Iwata Shigenori (1961-), wrote an essay about this phenomenon of tamashii leaving the body just before death. He explained that the departure of tamashii from a living body only happens when the person is dying. The announcement of the death signifies the reunification of the tamashii and the body after spending time with relatives or friends. Iwata Shigenori also remarks that in Japan there exist rituals after the funeral that involve breaking rice bowls or putting upside down a mortar called usu 臼, so that the tamashii cannot lodge in the hollow of one of these containers and is thus able to reunite with the body.18 When we hear these stories, we think that such phenomena cannot exist. To me, this is irrelevant. The point is that the protagonists believe that they really happened and that they hold such a concept of the tamashii.

3) The tamashii of a dead person comes to pick up a departing tamashii

In the third type of story, the tamashii of a dead person comes to pick up a departing tamashii to lead it to the hereafter. A person in his or her deathbed starts talking to a deceased person. This may be their father, grandmother or a close friend. Obviously, the two prepare his or her imminent departure. Soon afterwards, the person dies. Reflections on contemporary tales contains the following story, related by Kurihara Tadatoshi of Kagoshima prefecture.

Grandmother’s health got worse, and all the family gathered in her house. My father and I were in a room next to her’s. It was raining and snowing at the same time. In the afternoon, suddenly, we heard the steps of a person coming barefoot to the house. However, we saw nobody outside. The footsteps reached grandmother’s room. “Ah Kesa-don! Have you come to get me? Thank you.” Grandmother said. “You know, I am not ready yet. You can sleep here tonight. And we will go away tomorrow morning. ” Kesa-don is the name of grandmother’s dead brother. Grandmother goes on chatting in a low voice. She died early in the morning. We said to each other: “Our uncle came to find grandmother. ”19

In this story, only the grandmother can hear the voice of Kesa don. The rest of the family only hears the footsteps of the uncle who stopped in front of the

18 Iwata, Shigenori 岩田重則, “Reflections on the tamashii that leaves the body”「遊離霊魂論」in Komatsu Kazuhiko 小松和彦 (editor), Views of the parallel world in Japan『日本人の異界観』、Serika shobô, 2006, p.188. 19 Op.cit, vol.5, pp.130-131.

60 grandmother’s room, but not his voice. We also note the relaxed tone of the grandmother, who sounds happy to go on a trip with the brother she loved so much. She greets him as if she had left him the day before. "It's been a long time! Have you come? "...

This phenomenon is commonly called omukae お迎え, the picking up of a dying person to guide him or her to the hereafter. Apart from contemporary tales, we also have some recent testimony. A survey conducted by a team of young doctors, nurses, philosophers, and psychologists working with elderly people and targeting 350 families revealed that 42 percent of the subjects interviewed testified that just before his or her death, one of their relatives "talked about the existence of persons or landscapes that the other could not see." 20 This demonstrates the persistence of popular beliefs concerning the proximity of the afterlife and the close back-and-forth connections between the two worlds. In about twenty stories of omukae from Reflections on the contemporary tales21, the dying often called the tamashii by his or her name, showing real intimacy: "Mom! ", "Grandfather!", "I am arriving!" There exists a real link between the two, and the atmosphere is always very warm. Neither Buddha nor kami appear in this sort of tale. No representation of the hereafter does either, be it the Christian Paradise, the Yomi no kuni (the underground world of the deads in ancient Japan) or the Buddhist Pure Land of the West. Besides the stories of omukae by a deceased family member, there are a few in which people (hito, onna no hito, rojin) come down from the sky, although these are rather ambiguous. We do not know exactly who these people are, nor where they come from. Sometimes the family members who are attending the scene, understanding what is going to happen, proceed to the ritual of the call-of- tamashii (tamayobai 魂呼ばい). They shout loudly the soon-to-decease person's name. Some add: "Don’t go now!", "It's too early!" In some stories, a horse carriage, a boat or even a car picks up the dying person. In other cases, will-o’-the-wisp can embody the tamashii of the deceased. There is no conversation. The will-o’-the-wisp comes down from a sacred mountain or the cemetery of the family temple. It enters the house through the chimney and shortly after, two will-o’-the-wisp return to the sacred mountain. People say, for example: the grandfather came to pick up the grandmother. So we do not die alone. Our relatives protect us, they keep close to us, they assist us. This makes death less terrifying.

4) Near-death experience

20 Shimizu, Tetsurô (editor) 清水哲郎監修、How to live, how to die, Thanatology from the hospice 『どう生きどう死ぬか、現場から考える死生学』, Kyûsen Shoin, 2009, p.163. 21 Op.cit, vol.5, pp.130-149.

The forth type of story is the near-death experience. Somebody close to death finds him or herself in the middle of a field of flowers. There, they come across several dead people who beg him not to approach them. At that very moment, the person hears people shouting his or her name and comes back to life. Tales of Tôno, collected in Reflections on the contemporary tales, is one example.

At the village of Iide, Kikuchi Matsunojô, who was seriously ill, started to lose consciousness. “My tamashii went out to look around the temple, among the rice fields. When I wanted to put my feet on the ground, to my great surprise, I flew away. It was a very pleasant feeling. I went through the gate of the temple, and was surrounded by poppies. I saw my dead father and son. My son said: “Dad, why are you here? You should not come now.” At this moment, I heard someone shout my name, and I regained consciousness. The members of my family who were gathered around had poured fresh water on me to bring me back to life. Tale 97, Tales of Tôno, Yamagata prefecture22

Near-death experiences usually occur when people who have been clinically dead for a few moments return to life because of medicine. In the United States, this phenomenon has been observed countless times by specialists, who have collected many testimonials. Almost all follow the same pattern, though the details differ according to the cultures. In Japan, especially in stories collected by Matsutani Miyoko, the images are usually of fields of poppies, sunflowers or other flowers, in which are many dead people. Between our world and the hereafter, a river almost always marks the frontier. The dead are on the other side. Sometimes they say do not come. In other cases, they try to take you to the other side of the river. "I am glad to learn that my father and my brother are in such a nice place. If so, it doesn’t bother me to go there", a woman said after such an experience.

5) The reincarnation In Reflections on contemporary tales, two types of reincarnations can be identified. First, we encounter the type in which people write calligraphy of a sutra or the name of the deceased on the palm of his or her hand or on the sole of his or her foot. Sometimes, a baby is born in the village with the same inscription on its hand or foot. The family says that the baby is the reincarnation of the dead person. The inscription disappears when the new born takes its first bath in which water some soil taken from the grave of the deceased has been added.

22 Tale No. 97, Op.cit, 1910.

62 About ten stories of this type are collected in Reflections on contemporary tales. Here is an example. At the end of the Meiji era, in the village of Yamagata, there was a beggar named Okume, who often paid visit to an important family of the village named K. When Okume died, the family called the bonze to organize her funeral. She thus got a grave. For the peace of her tamashii, the bonze wrote a sutra on the sole of her foot. Later, a girl was born in the family. She had the same inscription on her foot. They bathed the baby adding in the water a small amount of soil taken from Okume’s tomb. The sutra disappeared at once. Thereafter, the daughter had a happy destiny. Shiobara Tsuneko, Nagano prefecture23

The anthropologist Miyata Noboru (19362000) says that in Japan, when someone dies, it is customary after the funeral to wish for his or her reincarnation. During the Mikokiki ミコキキ, a death ritual which aims at bringing down the tamashii of the deceased into the body of the miko 巫女 (medium), the relatives of the deceased person are happy when they hear his or her voice say, "I will be reborn soon in the person of a little child." Moreover, in popular traditions, when a grandfather or a grandmother dies, and that a birth occurs immediately afterwards in the family, people consider that the deceased person has been reincarnated. 24 When an elderly person dies, it seems that it is not customary to write sutra, but in any case, if a child is born in the family, people rejoice themselves because they think that it is the reincarnation of the grandmother or grandfather. The second type of reincarnation stories has to do with children who are supposed to remember their previous life, being able to provide details about it, mentioning people or places names. So did a woman from the Tokyo prefecture, who remembered her childhood in the 1970s. "I suddenly started to say that I had been Masako. I could remember very clearly my life as Masako. "Masako was the sister of her father, she had died at the age of five. Her father was bewildered as she told things that only Masako could have told.25 In another story, a doctor realized, during a hypnosis session of a girl of thirteen years old named Junko, that in her subconscience, she had precise remembrance of the life of another little girl from Tokyo, Kikuko, who had died very young. The tamashii of Kikuko had left her body just before the incineration, had flied away to enter inside a calf named Jirobei at Hiroshima. After, this

23 Op.cit, vol. 5, p.515. 24 Miyata, Noboru 宮田登、Folklore of spirit and trip『霊魂と旅のフォークロア』, 宮田登日本を語る Vol. 7、Yoshikawa Kôbunkan, 2006, pp.78-80.

25 Op.cit, vol. 5, p525.

63 tamashii came to Okayama in the family of Orihara to be reborn as Junko.26

This type of story is known through the Chronicle of the Rebirth of Katsugorô 『勝五郎の再生記聞』 (1828) by Hirata Atsutane 平田篤胤 (1776- 1843), a philosopher of National Studies 国学 of the Edo period. Katsugorô, who lived at Hachiôji in Tokyo, told at the age of 8 to his parents that he had been the child of a peasant family. This boy had died prematurely. Katsugorô remembered that his tamashii had remained first on a desk at home, and then, led by an old man with white hair, had been reincarnated. Lafcadio Hearn (1850-1904), wrote also about Katsugorô in the short story "Rebirth of Katsugorô"「勝五郎の再生」 in 1897.

This concept of reincarnation is different from the Buddhist idea of transmigration. In Buddhism, behaviour during one’s life has influence on the reincarnation. Thus, in case of misbehaviour, one reincarnates as an insect or an animal, sign of punishment. As we saw earlier according to the anthropologist Miyata Noboru’s writings, reincarnation follows, in Japanese popular traditions, the will of the family who would like the deceased to be reborn.27 This idea of reincarnation is reassuring. The deceased continues to exist through the life of another person.

6) The Wondering or errant tamashii

Finally, the sixth and final type of stories comprises those about wandering or errant souls. In this case, the tamashii appears only after death. Persons who died tragically, violently from an accident, illness, suicide or in the war, appears to living people, because their tamashii do not find peace 浮かばれない. They are full of regret and bitterness. Many stories are related during the Pacific War, when young people were massively killed. Here is a example of stories of dead soldiers who came back as ghosts.

On the island of Guadalcanal, during a ground offensive by 15,000 US marines, the Ikki regiment lost its 800 fighters only in nine days. Fifteen days later, the regiment Kawaguchi arrived in the island. At night, two Japanese sentries suddenly heard the noise of boots on the sand. They saw fifteen soldiers coming toward them from the seaside. Holding the Japanese flag, their head down, injured, limping heavily, the troop passed before them and disappeared into the darkness. When the sentries told this story, their chief did not believe them. So he joined them the next day and they saw the same scene. It was the ghosts of the Ikki regiment.

26 Ibid., p.531. 27 Miyata Noboru, op.cit., p.78-80.

64 Narrated by Masuda Katsumi, Tokyo28

These stories of errant soldiers’ tamashii occur many times in Reflections on contemporary tales. We can make an interesting parallel between these Japanese stories and legends of western ghosts and phantoms. In literature, let us remember the famous scene in the beginning of Shakespeare’s play Hamlet, where the phantom of Hamlet’s father appears. Horatio, Hamlet’s friend, verifies the apparition that the two guards, Bernardo and Marcellus, said they had seen on previous nights. The phantom passes once more near these three men (Act I, Scene I). We know that the father had been tragically killed by his brother. His soul could not rest in peace and wandered endlessly.

We can also cite the “ghost army” of the Middle Ages. Dead soldiers, led by a skeleton, cross the sky at great speed. The peasants used to confine themselves inside their homes, fearing they might be drawn into the procession.29 In Japan, even today, if people see this kind of phenomenon, they proceed to a ceremony in order to appease the tamashii. They invite a monk who will recite the sutra, or they erect a stupa. One Japanese specificity resides in stories where suddenly deceased persons feel regrets about unaccomplished acts during their life.

In April 1993, the wife of the writer Takashi Yoichi died suddenly. One month later, Yoichi saw one of these large black butterflies called swallowtail butterfly flying around him. At another moment, he noticed that the same butterfly was sitting on the unfinished painting of his wife representing the Kirishima Mountain. For Yoichi, this was the sign of a feeling of regret that his wife was communicating to him. He decided to bring back the painting to the bottom of the Kirishima Mountain, where they had a house. Just as he sat in his car, he saw the black butterfly sitting on his wife’s sit! He started. After a few kilometres, the butterfly fluttered in all directions, as if it wanted him to go faster. His wife loved speed, and she used to ask him to drive faster. Upon arrival, Yoichi placed the painting in front of the mountain. The butterfly followed him and went on the painting. Then it disappeared. When Yoichi took again the wheel, the butterfly was dead on the seat of the passenger. He made for it a tomb and implored it not to return never again.

28 Op.cit, vol.2, p.402. 29 Itô Susumu 伊藤進、The forest and the Devil『森と悪魔』、Iwanami shoten, 2002, p.245. Cf. also Chasse fantastiques et cohortes de la nuit au moyen âge, Claude Lecouteux, Imago, 1999.

65 It happened five or six years ago, but the butterfly returned more than once.

Takashi Yoichi, interviewed by Matsutani Miyoko, Fukuoka prefecture30

In such stories, the dead person’s regrets disappear when a living person understands that the spirit of the dead is still around, and comforts the spirit: asking a monk to chant a sutra, organizing a memorial service or building a tomb or a memorial tower. So, the end of this story is an exception.

★ ★ ★

In Japanese, we can say "to go on a journey", to mean "die." "My grandfather died," therefore, gives "My grandfather went on a journey 祖父は旅立ちました"。Symbolically, it means that death is not only an end but also a starting point. The popular Japanese stories show how the living and the dead are linked in close relationships, emotionally and even physically. After death, as the body disappears, nothing is left. This is the materialistic vision of death according to modern rationalism. It generally results in fear, and sometimes in an extreme feeling of solitude. In comparison, the image of death in Japanese popular traditions is very different. The Portuguese writer Wenceslau de Moraes (1854-1929), who lived at the beginning of the 20th-century on the island of Shikoku, became very fond of this concept of the well-meaning, guiding omnipresence of tamashii. He admired the Japanese, for whom the deceased persons stay near their family and loved ones.31 In Europe, a similar concept of death disappeared long time ago.

REFERENCES:

De Moraes, W. 1998. « Bon-odori » em Tokushima『徳島の盆踊り』, translated from portuguese by Okamura Takiko, Kôdansha, Gakujutsu bunko. Fukuda, A., Tsunemitsu, T., Saito, T. 2000. For those who study Japanese tales 『日本の民話を学ぶ人のために』、Sekai shisôsha. Itô, S. 2002. The forest and the Devil『森と悪魔』、Iwanami shoten. Kareh Tager, D. 2007.Vivre la Mort, Voyages à travers les traditions, OXUS Editions.

30 Op.cit, vol.5, pp.417-419 31 De Moraes Wenceslau, O « Bon-odori » em Tokushima『徳島の盆踊り』, translated from portuguese by Okamura Takiko, Kôdansha, Gakujutsu bunko, 1998, pp.179-186

66 Kawai, H. 1994.Crossing religion and science『宗教と科学の接点』, Iwanami shoten. Komatsu, K. (ed.) 2006. Views of the parallel world in Japan『日本人の異界観』、Serika shobô. Le Braz, A. 1912.La légende de la mort chez les Bretons armoricains, tome premier, Paris, Champion. Matsutani, M. 2003. Reflections on contemporary tales 『現代民話考』12 volumes、Chikuma bunko、Chikuma shobô. Vol.2, 第２巻「軍隊」 "Army" Vol.4, 第４巻「火の玉」"Will-o’-the-wisp" ;「ぬけ出した魂」"Out-of- body experience" Vol.5, 第５巻「死の知らせ」 "Announcement of death"; 「あの世へ行った話」"Visits to the hereafter" Matsutani, M. 2000.Contemporary tales 『現代の民話』、あなたも語り手、わたしも語り手、Chûkô shinsho, Chûôkôronsha. Matsutani, M. 1984. Messages from hearafter『あの世からのことづて』、私の遠野物語、Chikuma Shobô. Matsutani, M. 1987. Tales of Onagawa and Ogatsu, recounted by IWASAKI Toshie『女川・雄勝の民話・岩崎としゑの語り』, Kokudosha. Matsutani, M. 1994-1997. Complete works of Matsutani Miyoko『松谷みよ子の本』, 11 volumes, Kôdansha. Miyata, N. 2006. Folklore of spirit and trip『霊魂と旅のフォークロア』, 宮田登日本を語る Vol. 7、Yoshikawa Kôbunkan. Shakespeare, W. 1988. Hamlet, translated by Yves Bonnefoy, Mercure de France. Shimizu, T. (ed.). 2009. 清水哲郎監修、How to live, how to die, Thanatology from the hospice『どう生きどう死ぬか、現場から考える死生学』 Kyûsen shoin. Yamashiro, T. 1958.Creators of tales『民話を生む人々』, Iwanami Shinsho, Iwanami shoten. Yanagita, K. 1997. About ancestors『先祖の話』、Complete works Yanagita Kunio, vol 13 柳田國男全集, Chikuma shobô. Yanagita, K. 1910. Tales of Tôno 『遠野物語』

WESTERN CIVILIZATION AS EXHIBITED IN A SINO- JAPANESE POEM FROM THE EDO PERIOD: AN ANALYSIS OF ARAI HAKUSEKI’S “THE ALARM CLOCK”

Sungkook KANG

Abstract: This article analyzes Hakuseki’s poem “The Alarm Clock” according to Bakhtin’s theory about the relationship between the material of the poem and the surrounding society. This poem is included in the Hakuseki Shisō poetry collection and describes the appearance, structure, and sound of an alarm clock, expressing its superior quality by alluding to ancient Chinese legend. The alarm clock was originally introduced to Japan by Western missionaries in the sixteenth century and was improved during the seventeenth century when the Japanese adjusted it to Japan’s unique time system. The improved alarm clock was in circulation in Arai Hakuseki’s time. By analyzing the poem, we can surmise that the clock that Hakuseki saw was the model improved by the Japanese. Although the alarm clock originated in the West, the poem exhibits an ideal world often seen in Chinese poetry. The poem does not imply that the alarm clock is a Western invention. Moreover, it contains many expressions related to ancient Chinese legend. For example, the bell and the pole that supports it are described with reference to two artefacts, the “Dew Collecting Plate” and the “Golden Pillar.” The poem reveals Hakuseki’s intention to show off Japan’s technology to his first readers in 1711, the Korean ambassadors, who revered ancient China as the ideal state. Keywords: Arai Hakuseki, Sinitic poetry, Hakuseki Shisō, alarm clock, Chōsen- Tsūshinshi

1. INTRODUCTION:

Mikhail Mikhailovich Bakhtin (1895–1975) insisted on the importance of considering both the background society and the listeners in understanding a poem.

If sociological analysis is to be properly and productively applied to the theory of art (poetics in particular), then two fallacious views that severely narrow the scope of art by operating exclusively with certain isolated factors must be rejected. The first view can be defined as the fetishization of the artistic work artifact. This fetishism is the prevailing attitude in the study

 Visiting Researcher, Osaka University

68 of art at the present time. The field of investigation is restricted to the work of art itself, which is analyzed in such a way as if everything in art were exhausted by it alone. (…) The first point of view cannot be consistently followed out to the end. The problem is that if one remains within the confines of the artifact aspect of art, there is no way of indicating even such things as the boundaries of the material or which of its features have artistic significance. The material in and of itself directly merges with the extraartistic milieu surrounding it and has an infinite number of aspects and definitions—in terms of mathematics, physics, chemistry, and so forth as well as of linguistics.1

Bakhtin points out that the material in an artwork merges with the environment surrounding it. This means that when one investigates poetry, one must analyze the relationship between the material in the poetry and the various elements that surround it—that is, society. Further, Bakhtin refers to the process by which a poet selects words:

Value judgments, first of all, determine the author’s selection of words and the reception of that selection (the coselection) by the listener. The poet, after all, selects words not from the dictionary but from the context of life where words have been steeped in and become permeated with value judgments. Thus, he selects the value judgments associated with the words and does so, moreover, from the standpoint of the incarnated bearers of those value judgments. It can be said that the poet constantly works in conjunction with his listener’s sympathy or antipathy, agreement or disagreement.2

According to Bakhtin, the poet selects words from the context of life, and with an awareness of the listener’s reaction. This means that the words in a poem are closely related to the presence of the listener. The relationships between a poem and the factors that influence the material and words of the poem can be expressed as in Figure 1.

1 Mikhail Mikhailovich Bakhtin, ‘Appendix II V.N. Voloshinov and the Structure of Language in Freudianism’, Titnuk trans. Freudianism, Verso, 2012. 2Op. cit.

Figure 1

Accordingly, two things should be considered to ensure that a poem is understood correctly. The first is the society surrounding the material of the poem. The second is the listeners the poet was conscious of as he or she composed the poem. If these two factors are known, the meaning of the material and words of the poem become clear. Based on Bakhtin’s theory, this paper presents an analysis of “The Alarm Clock,” the first poem from Hakuseki Shisō, which was published in 1712.

2. An analysis of Arai Hakuseki’s poem “The Alarm Clock”

Arai Hakuseki was a Confucian minister in the service of the Tokugawa shogunate during the early eighteenth century. He is well known for meeting and debating with the Italian missionary Giovanni Battista Sidotti (1668–1774). Hakuseki Shisō (edited in 1711, published in 1712) is a collection of 99 Sinitic poems (漢詩, kanshi) composed by Arai Hakuseki. The title of the first Hakuseki Shisō poem is “The Alarm Clock.” It depicts the appearance, structure, and sound of an alarm clock’s ring, alluding to ancient Chinese legends. One feature of this poem is that the material it deals with is very artificial; it is an object derived from human technology. The other poems in Hakuseki Shisō focus on traditional materials, such as natural subjects or concerns about relationships with friends. The poem consists of 32 lines of five syllables each and is longer than any other Sinitic poem in the book. It embodies a unique style, as it includes notes that explain the mechanism of the alarm clock; the other poems do not include the same style notes (see Figure 2).

Figure 2 “The Alarm Clock” by Arai Hakuseki from Hakuseki shisō (1712)3

Figure 3 shows an alarm clock that was used in Japan in the Edo period. Hakuseki’s poem can be easily understood with reference to this photo. Below is the original text and the English translation4 of the first part of “The Alarm Clock.”

鳬氏爲鐘日 In the days when Fu-shi (鳬氏) made a bell, 軒皇製漏成 Xuan-huang (軒皇) created a water clock 授時欽曆象 Shou-shi (授時)5 is based on the motions of heavenly bodies. 齊政在璣衡 The affairs of state are conducted considering the observation through Ji-heng (璣衡)6 圓蓋天形小 A small, round cover which is shaped like heaven 方輿地體平 An even, square palanquin which is shaped like the earth

Below are the notes that follow these lines, explaining the structure of the clock.

3 松下忠ほか編『詩集日本漢詩第一巻』汲古書院、1987, p.289. 4 All translations from Chinese and Japanese are mine, Sungkook Kang, unless otherwise indicated. 5 An ancient Chinese calendar. 6 An ancient Chinese armillary sphere (Xuanji-yuheng 璇璣玉衡).

71 上縣圓鐘下設方函 A round bell is installed in the upper part of the clock, while a square box is attached down below.

This first part can be interpreted as follows: In the days when Fu-shi (鳬氏), a person who was in charge of the music in the ancient Chinese legend, made a bell, a legendary emperor Xuan-huang (軒皇) invented a water clock. The ancient Chinese calendar, Shou-shi (授時), is based on the motions of the heavenly bodies. The affairs of state can be conducted well by considering the observation through Ji-heng (璣衡). The round cover which is shaped like heaven is small, and the square palanquin which is shaped like the earth is flat. A

Figure 3 An artifact from the Watanabe Art Museum

In this part, the poet emphasizes the usability of the alarm clock, mentioning that it is beneficial for the affairs of state to observe the motions of the heavenly bodies and to understand the changes of the seasons. The last two lines of the quotation above express the ancient Chinese view of the universe that the heaven is round and the earth is square. The notes inserted by the poet contain a figurative description of the appearance of the alarm clock. The round bell is compared to “the heaven” (see Figure 3-A), and the squarish box is compared to “the earth” (see Figure 3-B). The quotation below is another part of the poem “The Alarm Clock.”

層柱西崑壯 Pillars are magnificent like Mount Kunlun (崑崙)7 魁杓北斗橫 The Big Dipper lies horizontally

The note the poet made about this quotation is as follows:

函中有大小數柱當面側立銅版上環書十二辰名中心揚斗柄隋時轉指毫釐不差

7 A legendary mountain that is believed to be located in western China.

72 There are large and small pillars inside the box. The 12 names of the heavenly bodies8 are engraved in a circle on the front copper plate of the box. An hour hand shaped like the Big Dipper points to the names of the heavenly bodies depending on the time. It never makes an error.

Figure 4

The quotation above describes the pillars inside the clock box and the front part of the box (see Figure 4), referring to the legendary Chinese mountain Kunlun (崑崙). It is similar to the former quotation in that it compares a part of the clock to a large-scale Chinese legendary object.

3. The society surrounding the poem: the introduction and development of the clock in Japan

To understand the meaning of this poem’s material (an alarm clock), the poem’s milieu should be known; that is, the introduction of the clock into Japan and its subsequent development in the Edo period. According to The History of the Church of Japan 9 the first clock invented in the West was introduced to Japan when Francisco de Xavier, a Spanish missionary who came to Japan in 1549, dedicated a clock to Yoshitaka- Ōuchi (大内義隆)10 in Yamaguchi. The following was written in Hakuseki’s record:

8 The 12 names of the units into which heaven was divided in ancient Chinese astronomy (十二辰). These names were used as units of time. 9 Crasset, 太政官 trans., 『日本西教史』, 太陽堂書店, 1931. 10 1507–1551, a daimyo in the Sengoku period. He permitted Francisco de Xavier’smissionary work.

73 Since a foreigner brought a clock to Japan during the Keicho era, 11 manufacturing similar clocks is the mode all over the country.12

This quotation indicates that clocks were being manufactured that imitated Western clocks in Hakuseki’s time. However, the use of clocks invented in the West created problems because Japan and Western countries have different time systems. In the Edo Period, Japan used the temporal hour system (不定時法), which divides the time between sunrise and sunset into six equal parts. As the length of day and night changed, the length of one unit of time was different according to the season. Therefore, the Western clock did not match the time system in Japan in the Edo period. Japanese engineers in the Edo period solved this problem by improving the Western clock.

Botenpu (棒天符)

Figure 5

Figure 5 is a picture of an alarm clock that appeared in Wakansansaizue (和漢三才図会), published in 1712. The horizontal pole (the arrow mark), from which hangs a weight at either end, is a piece of equipment named botenpu (棒天符), which controls the speed of an hour hand. Japanese engineers in the Edo period installed two botenpu in each clock (one for daytime, the other for nighttime). During the daytime (from sunrise to sunset), one

111596–1615 (慶長年間). 12「慶長年中、西洋人時計といふものを参らせしことあり、其制に倣ひて作れるもの今盛んに世に行はる」（新井白石『東雅』）

74 botenpu swings continuously and the other remains still. At sunset, the swinging botenpu stops moving and the other botenpu starts to swing. The two botenpu convert automatically. Users of the clock must adjust each botenpu’s swinging speed by positioning the weights in the ends. A clock improved in this way is called nichōtenpudokei (二挺天符時計, see Figure 6).

Two botenpu are installed

Figure 6

This improvement in the alarm clock is an example of the revolutionary technology of the Edo period. Certain phrases of Hakuseki’s poem “The Alarm Clock” indicate that the poem’s material is the clock nichōtenpudokei (二挺天符時計), which was improved by Japanese engineers.

燥炭懸權重 Weights shining like burning coal are hung heavy 浮灰動管輕 A pole moving like a wisp of smoke swings light. 函上置衡衡端懸錘又函中有如管者 On the box there are two poles (two botenpu) with weights hanging from each end. Inside the box there are objects that look like poles.

It is likely that Hakuseki used an alarm clock improved by Japanese revolutionary technology as the material of his poem, and placed the poem at the beginning of Hakuseki Shisō, because of his pride in Japanese technology. This becomes clear when we consider that members of the Korean embassy “Chōsen- Tsūshinshi” (朝鮮通信使), who were sent in 1711 to celebrate the succession of Shogun Tokugawa Ienobu (徳川家宣), were the first to listen to this poem.

75 Below is a quotation describing the details of how Hakuseki intended to show his collection of poems Hakuseki Shisō to members of the Chōsen- Tsūshinshi, written by Lee-Wonshik (李元植).

By the way, Hakuseki sent this collection of poems to Amenomori Hōshū (雨森芳洲) staying in Tsushima (対馬), and asked him to show it to the members of the ‘Chōsen-Tsūshinshi’ of the year 1711 as soon as they arrive there, and to request them to write the preface and the postscript of it. So the members of ‘Chōsen-Tsūshinshi’ wrote the preface and the postscript on the ship during a trip from Tsushima to Ōsaka, and made a clean copy in a guest house in Ōsaka. And Hōshū sent the copy to Hakuseki before those ambassadors arrived at Edo. Hakuseki seems to be full of confidence that he would overwhelm them with his poems. Hakuseki’s thorough preparation is admirable.13

Hakuseki’s awareness of Chōsen-Tsūshinshi appears in another of his writings, Chōsenheishigogi (朝鮮聘使後議):

By the way, those ambassadors (Chōsen-Tsūshinshi) consider it a shame that Korea (朝鮮) cannot win over Japan by military power, and try to overwhelm Japan by literal power. But that attitude is not worthy of even calling it discourtesy, as inviting those ambassadors was originally to foster the friendly relationship between both countries.14

The historical background to the above description is Japan’s invasion of Korea by Toyotomi Hideyoshi (豊臣秀吉). As Korea suffered a huge amount of damage following Japan’s invasion from 1592 until 1596, Japan’s presence became a threat to the Korean people. Although the apparent purpose of the visit of “Chōsen-Tsūshinshi” was to establish a friendly relationship between both countries, as Hakuseki wrote, one of Chōsen-Tsūshinshi’s real intentions was to examine Japan’s situation and judge whether Japan might attack Korea again.

13「さて、白石はこの詩草を対馬の雨森芳洲に送り、正徳度 (1711) の朝鮮信使が対州に到着するやいなや、直ちにそれを信使に示し、序跋を求めさせた。そこで、韓使は対州より大坂に到る船中において、序跋を草し大坂の客館で清書している。芳洲は、韓使が江戸に到着する前に、すでにこれを白石のもとへ送り届けたのである。白石はかねてから、漢詩をもって信使を圧倒させてみせるという自信に満ちていたとみえるが、さすがに彼の用意周到さには感歎せざるを得ない。」『朝鮮通信使の研究』（李元植、思文閣、 1997 年）第五章正徳度（1711）の使行. 14「然るに彼信使はもとより武事においては其国の敵し難き事を耻ぬればいかにもして文事を以て我国に長たらん事を争ひしかども彼使を迎へられし事はもとより両国和好の事によりければ其不恭の事をも咎めらるるに及ばず」（「朝鮮聘使後議」『新井白石全集４』 p.679）

76 Korea’s ambassadors recognized Japan as a historical enemy country and as a potential future enemy country, and this attitude might have been conveyed to the Japanese people who contacted them. Hakuseki, who had a chance to meet Chōsen-Tsūshinshi in 1682 and in 1711, might have perceived Chōsen- Tsūshinshi’s feelings. Hakuseki’s description above shows his own sense of rivalry. He considers the contact with Chōsen-Tsūshinshi not as a friendly relationship but as a competition in literary power (文事). Hakuseki thought that “washū” (和習) should be avoided. Washū is a kind of grammatical error that Japanese poets often fall into when they compose Sinitic poetry or Sinitic prose. Because Sinitic poetry is based on the Chinese language, nonnative poets might easily fall into this error, which can introduce misunderstandings into the international exchange of Sinitic poetry. The term “washū” (和習) describes errors made by Japanese poets in particular. Hakuseki’s thoughts about washū can be understood clearly in his letter to Sakuma Tōgan (佐久間洞巌):15

In the text on which I made a commentary, there were several places where the meaning of the sentence was not clear. That’s the difficulty of Sinitic prose written by Japanese people. It is difficult to argue something in the Chinese language. Setting Chinese people aside, even Korean people say that Japanese people’s writing is difficult to read. That’s a very natural reaction but uncomfortable to hear. (…) I just hope that I could write a Sinitic poem, or Sinitic prose which is understandable to Chinese people.16

This letter indicates that Hakuseki was aware of Korean people’s criticism of Sinitic poems and Sinitic prose written by Japanese people. Hakuseki wanted to avoid that kind of criticism and wanted to write Sinitic poems and prose that could be understood correctly by Chinese and Korean people. He chose to study and memorize the Sinitic poetry of the Tang (唐) period17 as a way of mastering Sinitic poetry.

You should investigate every style of Sinitic poetry of the early Tang era and the high Tang era.18 Recite them from memory, appreciate them so that you may be able to compose a Sinitic poem like them.19

15佐久間洞巌(1653~1736). A Confucian, painter, and calligrapher in the Edo period 16「老拙釈文にても文義いかゞしきと存候処一二所候、これは日本流の文章のかたぎにて、漢語を以ては論じがたく候、唐人は扨置きぬ、朝鮮の輩だに日本の文字は詩も文もよめ候はぬ〳〵と申候、いかにも〳〵いはれある事に候、にくからぬ事に候、（中略）ただ〳〵唐人の読み候てよめ候やうにありたき事に候」『新井白石全集』第五 p.430、佐久間洞巌宛十二月昨日の手紙 17The Tang period was recognized as a golden age of Chinese literature and art. 18The history of Tang period literature is generally divided into four eras. The first era, “early Tang,” is from 618 to 712. The second era, “high Tang,” is from 713 to 765.

In the quotation above, Hakuseki is suggesting that the memorization of Tang era poems is a way to learn how to compose Sinitic poetry. Hakuseki himself was practicing that method: pursuing Sinitic poetry through poems of the Tang period. Hakuseki’s poem “The Alarm Clock” contains elements that are seen in poems of the Tang period. One characteristic of Tang era poems is their large scale; this is apparent in many phrases in “The Alarm Clock.” For example, the phrase following the reference to “the heaven” and “the earth” contains terms used to describe the parts of a clock: a bell and a box.

A small, round cover which is shaped like heaven, and an even, squarish palanquin which is shaped like the earth. (圓蓋天形小、方輿地體平)

The phrase following the reference to the legendary mountain Kunlun and the Big Dipper contains terms used to describe poles and the hour hand of a clock.

Pillars are magnificent like Mount Kunlun, the Big Dipper lies horizontally. (層柱西崑壯、魁杓北斗橫)

Metaphors like these can be recognized as exaggeration and are an expression of a large-scale perspective, as in poems of the high Tang period. When compared with Tang poems, the use of the words in “The Alarm Clock” demonstrates that the poem was composed in Tang style. The quotation below is from “The Alarm Clock.”

霄間金杵倚 A gold pestle is leaning in the air. 雲表玉杯擎 It strikes a cup made of jade among clouds.

This is Hakuseki’s note on the above phrases:

高擢一柱。當空擎鐘鐘下倚杵應機自擊。望之或如承露金莖 A pillar is standing high. It is supporting a bell in the air. A pestle is leaning under the bell, and strikes the bell according to time by itself. When it is seen from underneath, it seems like a Cheng-lu (承露) and a Jin-Jing (金莖).

Cheng-lu (承露), originally Cheng-lu-pan (承露盤), was a copper plate that was installed in the Jian-zhang palace (建章宮) in the period of the Han (漢) Emperor Wu (武帝). Jin-Jing (金莖) is a supporting pillar made of copper. These

19「唐ニテ初唐盛唐ノ詩を諸体共ニヒタト見候テ、ソラニ覚エ候テ、味ヲヨクヨク覚エ候ト、自然ニコナタノ申出ス事モソレニ似申スヤウニ覚エ、句調ヨクウツリ候テ、」「白石先生詩範」（『日本詩話叢書 1』文会堂書店、1920 p.39)

78 were made at Emperor Wu’s command. He wanted to live eternally and he believed that drinking dewdrops collected in Cheng-lu-pan could help him to live longer. This story is found in the History of the Former Han (漢書).

B A

Figure 7

As the two arrow marks indicate, “a pillar” means the metallic stick that supports the bell (see Figure 7-A), and “a pestle (…) under the bell” means the component that strikes the bell (see Figure 7-B). Comparing them to Cheng-lu- pan and Jin-Jing, which Emperor Han had made to help him achieve eternal life, seems a kind of exaggeration. However, this is a result of Hakuseki’s tendency to use words that often featured in poems of the Tang period. Below is part of the Tang period poem composed by Li-Shangyin ( 李商隱), 20 contained in “An Anthology of Tang Poems” (唐詩選).

青雀西飛竟未回 A blue bird flew to the West, and didn’t return in the end. 君王長在集霊台 The king stays long in Ji-ling-tai (集霊台) 侍臣最有相如渇 Although his subject, named Xiangru (相如), has a thirst (渇) 不賜金茎露一杯 He didn’t give him even a cup of dewdrops collected in Jin- Jing (金茎).

Ji-ling-tai (集霊台) is an altar where the kings worship gods in heaven. Xiangru (相如), whose full name was Sima-Xiangru (司馬相如, 179–117 BC), was

20Li-Shangyin (c. 813–858) was a Chinese poet of the late Tang Dynasty.

79 an ancient Chinese poet, writer, musician, and official who lived during the Han Dynasty. “The king” (君王) is Emperor Wu who pursued his own eternal life by establishing Cheng-lu-pan and Jin-Jing. The poet Li is criticizing Emperor Wu because he is concerned only with his own life and health and does not care about his subject Xiangru’s disease.21 His criticism is shown in the phrase “he didn’t give even a cup of dewdrops collected in Jin-Jing.” Aside from the work of the poet Li, Cheng-lu-pan and Jin-Jing were often used in Tang period poems. For example, in the Quan Tangshi (全唐詩; collection of Tang Poetry) the word Cheng-lu (承露) appears 30 times and the word Jin- Jing (金茎) can be seen 28 times. Within the collection Hakuseki Shisō, Hakuseki composed numerous poems, like the one examined above, in the Tang style, using words that can often be seen in Tang period poems. The members of Chōsen-Tsūshinshi who wrote comments on the preface of Hakuseki Shisō were conscious of the Tang period poetry style in Hakuseki’s poem, and they pointed this out in their comments:

Among his poems there are some very similar to the poems composed by the Tang period poets. (Lee-hyon 李礥) His poems have a tone as powerful as that of the high Tang poets. (Cho- taeok 趙泰億)22

Lee-hyon and Cho-taeok pointed out the similarity between Hakuseki’s poem and Tang period poems. Their comments were used as a tribute in the preface to the poems. This suggests that Chōsen-Tsūshinshi also recognized the Tang period poem as an ideal, and that Hakuseki’s intention to overwhelm Chōsen-Tsūshinshi by the poem produced the desired effect.

3. Conclusion

This article analyzed Hakuseki’s poem “The Alarm Clock,” which is contained in Hakuseki Shisō, starting from Bakhtin’s theory about the relationship between the material of the poem and the surrounding society. The result of the analysis can be expressed as in Figure 8.

21This disease is described only as “a thirst” (渇). It is probably diabetes. 22Below are some of the comments on Hakuseki’s Hakuseki Shisō poems by the members of Chōsen-Tsūshinshi: 李礥「其の詩は格清くして亮（あきら）かに、語新（あらた）にして趣遠く、往々唐人と酷だ肖たる者有り。（李礥重叔東郭撰、白石詩集序）趙泰億「其の詩は華絢にして実茂り、格高くして趣雅、豪健にして麁硬に流れず、婉麗にして繊巧に泥まず、駸々として盛唐人の口気有り。（趙泰億大年撰、序）任守幹「而して詞藻は采色相宣び、音律諧叶す。」（任守幹用誉撰、跋）李邦彦「其の各力は清健、詞彩は華絢、但音律之諧叶、声調之雅麗なるのみ（而已）ならず」

Figure 8

The analysis of phrases from “The Alarm Clock” indicates that the material of the poem was a clock based on the Western alarm clock that was improved by Japanese engineers of the Edo period. The reason why Hakuseki chose the alarm clock as the poem’s material, and the reason why he placed this poem first in Hakuseki Shisō, is related to his own intention toward Chōsen- Tsūshinshi. He wanted to overwhelm the members of Chōsen-Tsūshinshi who visited Japan in 1711 with his own excellent poem. He attempted two things in composing Sinitic poetry. The first was to compose Tang style poems that had no Chinese language grammatical errors. The second was to use a material that could demonstrate the high level of Japanese technology. Considering the Chōsen-Tsūshinshi’s favorable evaluation in the preface to Hakuseki Shisō, his attempt seems to have been successful.

REFERENCES: Crasset, J. 1931.太政官 trans., 日本西教史』, 太陽堂書店 Bakhtin, M. 2012. Appendix II V.N. Voloshinov and the Structure of Language in Freudianism, Titnuk trans. Freudianism, Verso. 池田四郎次郎編 1920.『日本詩話叢書』文會堂国書刊行会編 1977.『新井白石全集』第五巻国書刊行会編 1977.『新井白石全集』第四巻紫陽会編著 2012.『新井白石『陶情詩集』の研究』汲古書院寺島良安編 1999.『和漢三才図会』東京美術新村出 1971.『新村出全集』第五巻、筑摩書房松下忠 1969.『江戸時代の詩風詩論 : 明・清の詩論とその摂取』明治書院松下忠ほか編 1987.『詩集日本漢詩第一巻』汲古書院松村明ほか校注 1975.『日本思想大系 35 新井白石』岩波書店李元植 1997. 『朝鮮通信使の研究』思文閣

LANGUAGE STUDIES

JAPANESE WORDS USED IN ROMANIA

Andreea SION

Abstract: Only very few Japanese words are listed in the important dictionaries of the Romanian language. Among these, we find several words of very restricted use and most probably unknown to the vast majority of Romanian speakers, such as kaiten (“manned torpedo in the 2nd World War”); in contrast, many Japanese words naming things that have become increasingly popular in Romania, such as manga or tōfu, are not yet found in dictionaries. The present study aims to reveal to what extent Japanese words are in fact known and used by Romanian native speakers. The research is based on three questionnaires, which were used in order to determine whether the origin and the correct meaning of some Japanese words are known or not, as well as the frequency of these words in conversation. The results of the study show a discrepancy between the Japanese words that are indeed known and used and those recorded by the largest and most recent Romanian language dictionaries. A second finding is the fact that elder respondents tend to know the meaning of words related to the traditional Japanese culture, such as bushidō or cha-no-yu, while younger respondents tend to better know the meaning of words related to the modern, touchable reality, such as manga, karaoke or tōfu. Keywords: loanwords, Japanese language, Romanian language, frequency

INTRODUCTION

Since the establishment of diplomatic relations between Japan and Romania, in 1917, which encouraged cultural exchanges between the two countries, Romanians have always shown an interest in the Japanese culture, considering it “exotic” and “refined”. In the first decades of the 20th century, several travel notes and writings about Japan, as well as some translations of Japanese poetry and short stories were published in Romania, giving the Romanian public the opportunity to familiarize itself with the Japanese traditional values, and to learn about samurai, geisha, kimono, the tea ceremony and so on. Japanese literature, classic and modern, has been constantly translated and published, even during the communist regime. In present days, when the Internet facilitates information exchange and globalizes it, and when merchandise can travel very fast over considerable distances, many Romanian

 Lecturer Ph. D., Hyperion University, Bucharest.

83 young people are manga or anime fans, and one can easily buy tōfu, shōyu, wasabi and many other goods of Japanese origin at the supermarket.

It is always interesting to see how a culture embraces another culture and assimilates some of its elements. It is also interesting to see how cultural exchanges influence and enrich languages, by adding new words into the lexicon. Unfortunately, in the specific case of borrowings from Japanese into Romanian, the linguistic studies are very scarce and somewhat outdated. For this reason, our study aims to reveal to what extent Japanese words are in fact known and used by contemporary Romanian native speakers. The research is twofold, focusing on the words of Japanese origin recorded by Romanian language dictionaries stretching over a period of 30 years, while also using 3 surveys in order to determine whether the origin and the correct meaning of some Japanese words are known, as well as their frequency in everyday conversation.

SOURCES USED

In order to obtain a list of the Japanese words registered by dictionaries, we consulted eight dictionaries of the Romanian language1, published over a period of 30 years – between 1986 and 2016 –, issued by the Romanian Academy or compiled by individual researchers.

- 2 dictionaries of neologisms, Dicţionar de neologisme, (DN), published in 1986 and Marele dicţionar de neologisme (MDN) – “The Large Dictionary of Neologisms”, published in 2000; - 3 versions of Dicţionarul explicativ al limbii române (DEX) - “The Explanatory Dictionary of the Romanian Language”, created by the Institute of Linguistics of the Romanian Academy, containing approximately 65,000 entries, the 2nd edition of 1998 and two revised editions of 2009 and 2016; - Noul dicţionar explicativ al limbii române (NODEX), “The New Explanatory Dictionary of the Romanian Language”, published in 2000; - Dicţionarul ortografic, ortoepic şi morfologic al limbii române (DOOM 2), “The Orthographic, Orthoepic and Morphological Dictionary of the Romanian Language”, the 2nd revised edition, containing approximately 62,000 entries, published in 2005 by the Institute of Linguistics of the Romanian Academy. - Mic dicţionar academic (MDA) – “Small Academic Dictionary”, containing over 125,000 main entries, published in 2010 by the Institute of Linguistics of the Romanian Academy.

We chose two or more dictionaries of the same kind (DN 1986 and MDN 2000) or two or more editions of the same dictionary (DEX 1998, 2009, 2016) in order to see possible changes in the list of Japanese words recorded over the time. Also, we did not rely solely on dictionaries compiled by the official authority in the field, i. e. the Institute of Linguistics of the Romanian Academy (DEX, DOOM

1 In printed format or online, included in the database available at https://dexonline.ro/. For more details, see References.

84 2, MDA), trying to obtain a larger perspective by including dictionaries by other authors, such DN, MDN and NODEX.

Another source that we analyzed is Dicţionar de cuvinte recente (DCR 2) – “Dictionary of recent words”, compiled by one author, F. Dimitrescu. We chose its second and newest edition, of 1997. DCR contains approximately 5600 entries and should be considered more of a record of foreign words mentioned at some point in the Romanian press (which is the corpus used by its author) than a dictionary of words of foreign origin actually in use, but remains a useful tool in order to see which words were just sporadic occurrences or became more widespread.

In a more recent work (Dimitrescu 2001), the author of DCR 2 focuses in more detail on “Japanese words that have recently entered the Romanian language” (emphasis ours) and gives a list of approximately 100 words, all taken, as is the case with DCR 2, from various articles in the Romanian press. Some of the entries cannot be taken into account because they are mistakenly considered as of Japanese origin (such as tackwoado (probably taekwondo) or wushu), or are rather names of very restricted Japanese inventions (keplon – a food preservative, teleguliver – a very large TV screen manufactured by Mitsubishi), or are plain misinterpretations due to the fact that neither the Romanian author of the original press article nor the researcher had knowledge of the Japanese language (ex. dorm moto-abuzu, which probably refers to an apartment (dormitory) in the Moto-Azabu district). In addition, for some of the remaining valid entries it is difficult to say that they have truly “entered” the Romanian language, as the title of the study announces (such is the case of amakudari or hibakusha), but the study, which is well documented, remains a useful tool to determine the approximate time when a Japanese word was presented to the Romanian public.

In the nine dictionaries consulted we found a total number of 71 words of Japanese origin, shown in Figure 1:

Fig. 1 – Words of Japanese origin in Romanian language dictionaries

/ NOD DOOM no. DN DCR2 MDN DEX DEX DEX EX MDA 2 of 1986 1997 2000 1998 2009 2016 2002 2010 2005 dict. 1 ikebana (- ă) ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● 9 2 judo ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● 9 3 judoka (- can) ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● 9 4 kamikaze ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● 9 5 karate ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● 9 6 sake ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● 9

85 7 chimono(u ), ki- ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● 8 8 gheişă ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● 8 9 harachiri ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● 8 10 jiu-jitsu (- jiţu) ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● 8 11 kakemono ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● 8 12 samurai ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● 8 13 şintoism (shi-) ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● 8 14 yen ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● 8 15 haiku ● ● ● ● ● ● ● 7 16 mikado ● ● ● ● ● ● ● 7 17 sen ● ● ● ● ● ● ● 7 18 kabuki ● ● ● ● ● ● 6 19 ninja ● ● ● ● ● ● 6 20 tsunami ● ● ● ● ● 5 21 daimio (- myo) ● ● ● ● 4 22 dan ● ● ● ● 4 23 kaiten ● ● ● ● 4 24 katakana ● ● ● ● 4 25 makemono (-ki) ● ● ● ● 4 26 shogun ● ● ● ● 4 27 aikido ● ● ● 3 28 kendo ● ● ● 3 29 no (nô) ● ● ● 3 30 ronin ● ● ● 3 31 sodoku ● ● ● 3 32 yakuza ● ● ● 3 33 yuko ● ● ● 3 34 bonsai ● ● 2 35 bunraku ● ● 2 36 haikai ● ● 2 37 hibakusha ● ● 2 38 karateka ● ● 2 39 kogai ● ● 2 40 koka ● ● 2 41 koto ● ● 2 42 kumite ● ● 2 43 omozukai ● ● 2 44 shamisen (şa-) ● ● 2 45 sumo ● ● 2 46 surimono ● ● 2

86 47 tatami ● ● 2 48 tenno ● ● 2 49 amakudari ● 1 50 hiragana ● 1 51 iaido ● 1 52 joruri ● 1 53 kaki ● 1 54 kami ● 1 55 kana ● 1 56 kanji ● 1 57 katana ● 1 58 kendoka ● 1 59 keplon ● 1 60 kyudo ● 1 61 nippon ● 1 62 obi ● 1 63 origami ● 1 64 ryokan ● 1 65 sakura ● 1 66 seppuku ● 1 67 shinkansen ● 1 68 suiseki ● 1 69 sushi ● 1 70 taiko ● 1 71 tanka ● 1 No. of words: 29 28 59 18 19 20 19 40 22

As Figure 1 shows, only six words (ikebana, judo, judoka, kamikaze, karate, sake) are present in all the nine dictionaries consulted. Eight other words (chimono, gheişă, harachiri, jiu-jitsu, kakemono, samurai, şintoism, yen) are only missing from DCR 2, which is not surprising, the dictionary being one of recent words, while these eight words are all related to the traditional Japanese culture and have long entered the Romanian lexicon, as their adapted spelling (chimono, gheişă) shows it.

MDN seems to be the most generous dictionary, with 59 words of Japanese origin, but as many as 14 of them are not registered by any other of the dictionaries consulted. On the other hand, DEX seems to be the least welcoming, with 18 words listed in the 1998 edition and only one word, ninja, added to the 2009 and 2016 editions. We would have expected to find the word tsunami (mentioned in five other dictionaries) in DEX, if not in its early editions, at least in the latest (2016) one, five years after the Great Tōhoku Earthquake of March 2011, when the word became known to virtually everyone.

87 Most dictionaries tend to record words that pertain to the Japanese traditional culture, but their distribution is not uniform: while words such as judo, karate and jiu-jitsu are found in eight or nine dictionaries, aikido, the name of another martial art that is frequently practiced in Romania as well is found only in three.

Several other anomalies can be noticed: dictionaries list many words with very restricted use, such as dan (in martial arts), or kaiten (manned torpedo in World War II), while other words that name things easily accessible to Romanians, such as sushi, are only rarely listed.

QUESTIONNAIRES

Following the analysis of language dictionaries described in the previous section, three questionnaires were designed in order to find out to what extent a number of Japanese words are indeed known to Romanian native speakers. The survey was conducted via the Internet, the questionnaires being available at the following URLs:

Q1: http://goo.gl/forms/fp3Ls0OpLZ

Q2: http://goo.gl/forms/6pFSyADY2L

Q3: http://goo.gl/forms/1BwCNvGsQC

In all three cases, the respondents were asked to fill in some personal information, such as their age, occupation and foreign languages that they speak (including a self-assessed level of proficiency). Respondents who declared they had (some) knowledge of the Japanese language were excluded from the analysis.

Q1 – The first questionnaire was designed in order to determine whether the respondents knew the origin of 14 Japanese words, among some other foreign words, that we assumed to be more or less familiar to the Romanian speakers. We considered that this step was necessary upon noticing that the words of Japanese origin are very rarely marked as such in the dictionaries consulted; in most cases, only the languages they transited, such as French, English or German, are mentioned, ex:

IKEBÁNA, ikebane, s. f. Tehnică artistică de aranjare a florilor (în vase) după anumite principii; p. ext. aranjament al florilor după această tehnică. – Din fr. ikébana, engl. ikebana. (DEX 2009)

(English translation: “IKEBANA, plural form IKEBANE, feminine noun. Artistic technique of flower arrangement (in vases), following certain principles; by extension, flower arrangement following this technique. From French ikébana , English ikebana.”)

88 The 30 foreign words (Japanese words in bold type) used in the questionnaire were: aikido, baclava, bandana, bazar, falafel, feng shui, guru, haiku, ikebana, kamikaze, karaoke, kimchi, kung fu, manga, otaku, ramen, sari, sirtaki, sushi, taifun, tiramisu, tofu, tsunami, tzatziki, vodka, wasabi, wok, yakuza, yoga, yukata

The respondents were asked to write down the language of origin of the 30 words, if they thought they knew it, or to simply write “I don’t know”. We gathered responses from 115 Romanian native speakers aged between 13 and 93 that do not speak Japanese at all.

The results of the questionnaire are shown in Figure 2 below.

Fig. 2 Questionnaire no. 1 – Results rank \ O X ? rank \ O X ? 1 vodka 96.52 2.60% 0.86% 1 sari 60.86 19.13% 20.0% % 6 % 2 tzatziki 93.04 4.37% 2.60% 1 tiramis 60.0% 15.65 24.34 % 7 u % % 3 baclava 91.30 6.08% 2.60% 1 guru 58.26 21.73 20.00 % 8 % % % 4 bazar 89.56 7.82% 2.60% 1 manga 57.39 15.65 26.95 % 9 % % % 5 sushi 89.56 8.69% 1.73% 2 otaku 55.65 1.73% 42.60 % 0 % % 6 kamik 88.69 5.21% 6.08% 2 yoga 53.91 28.69 17.39 aze % 1 % % % 7 ikeban 87.82 3.47% 8.69% 2 karao 52.17 19.13% 28.69 a % 2 ke % % 8 aikido 86.0 2.60% 2.60% 2 yukata 50.43 2.60% 46.95 8% 3 % % 9 tsuna 83.47 4.37% 12.17% 2 wok 40.86 31.30 27.82 mi % 4 % % % 1 haiku 77.37 8.69% 13.91% 2 falafel 37.39 51.30 11.30% 0 % 5 % % 11 wasabi 71.30 11.30 17.39 2 tofu 32.17 26.08 41.73 % % % 6 % % % 1 feng 70.43 27.82 1.73% 2 ramen 23.47 22.60 53.91 2 shui % % 7 % % % 1 yakuza 67.82 6.08% 26.08 2 kimchi 14.78 38.26 46.95 3 % % 8 % % % 1 kung fu 62.60 35.65 1.73% 2 bandan 13.91% 52.17% 33.91 4 % % 9 a % 1 sirtaki 61.73 17.39 20.86 3 taifun 6.95% 65.2% 27.28 5 % % % 0 % O = correct answer, X = wrong answer, ? = “I don’t know”

As shown in Figure 1, it appears that Romanian native speakers have a very good knowledge of words originating from neighboring cultures, such as vodka (< Russian), tzatziki (< Greek) or baclava (< Turkish), but many Japanese words are correctly identified as well – out of the 14 Japanese words, 7 obtained correct answer rates higher than 70%, and all except for tōfu and rāmen higher than 50%.

Overall, the most common mistake was to mix up geographically close origins – such as Turkish and Arabic in the case of baclava or falafel, or Japanese and Chinese in the case of feng shui, kung fu or taifun.

Q2 – the second questionnaire aimed to determine whether the correct meaning of some Japanese words is known to Romanian native speakers. The questionnaire contains the following 40 words. We have included 23 words present in the nine dictionaries consulted and added 17 new words (shown in bold letters):

aikido, anime, bushido, chanoyu, cosplay, daimyo, futon, geisha, geta, haiku, iaido, ikebana, kabuki, kaiten, kamikaze, karaoke, kimono, kogai, manga, miso, ninja, no, otaku, sashimi, shamisen, shinkansen, shogun, shoji, suiseki, sumo, sushi, tanka, tatami, tofu, tori-i, tsunami, ukiyo-e, wasabi, yakuza, yukata

Some of the words that we included are names of products that can be easily purchased, under the same name, at Romanian supermarkets (tofu, wasabi); we expected others, such as anime, manga, otaku, cosplay and karaoke to be known especially by the young generation; lastly, we expected some other words which are specific to the Japanese traditional culture, such as bushido, shoji, tori-i or ukiyo-e to be less known to the Romanian public, but these words are comparable to those included in the language dictionaries, such as kabuki, kakemono, suiseki etc.

The respondents were asked to write down the meaning of the words if they thought they knew it, or to simply write “I don’t know” if they did not know it. We gathered responses from 113 Romanian native speakers aged between 16 and 93 that do not speak Japanese at all.

We divided the answers into 3 main categories: O – correct answers, which corresponded to the dictionary definitions of the words; △ – acceptable answers, which were not very thorough or completely accurate, but showed that the concept was not attributed to a wrong domain; X – wrong answers, where the descriptions given by respondents did not match at all the dictionary definitions of the words. Here are 2 examples:

tsunami:

90 O (correct): “A very large ocean wave caused by an underwater earthquake or volcanic eruption”

△ (acceptable): “Huge wave” (though it does not specify what causes the natural phenomenon, at least it correctly identifies tsunami as being a kind of wave – and not, for instance, traditional food)

X (wrong): “Storm” (perhaps confusion with “typhoon”)

tatami:

O (correct): “Straw matting used as a floor covering especially in a Japanese house”

△ (acceptable): “Mats used in a dojo” (partial definition)

X (wrong): “sleeping mattress” (confusion with futon) or “low table” (possible confusion with kotatsu)

On a few occasions we received unexpected answers due to the fact that respondents thought of words having the same form but belonging to different languages, such as manga (confusion with the Romanian slang word mangă, “very drunk”), no (negation in English and other languages), anime (confusion with the Latin anima, “soul”). Considering that acceptable answers are sufficient proof that those words are known to the respondents, we decided to include them into the final count and add them to the correct answers, which led to the results shown in Figure 3. The words in bold type are not found in the Romanian language dictionaries. Fig. 3 Questionnaire no. 2 – results

○ + △ ○ + △ 1 kimono 98.20% 21 bushido 36.28% 2 karaoke 96.40% 22 miso 30.97% 3 sumo 96.40% 23 futon 29.20% 4 sushi 95.50% 24 cosplay 27.43% 5 kamikaze 92.03% 25 daimyo 13.27% 6 ninja 92.03% 26 no 12.38% 7 ikebana 88.40% 27 shamisen 12.38% 8 tsunami 83.10% 28 shinkansen 11.50% 9 tofu 78.76% 29 chanoyu 9.73% 10 aikido 74.30% 30 yukata 8.84% 11 shogun 69.91% 31 otaku 7.07% 12 wasabi 64.60% 32 shoji 7.07% 13 geisha 64.60% 33 tanka 7.07% 14 haiku 61.94% 34 iaido 7.07% 15 anime 56.60% 35 ukiyo-e 5.30% 16 yakuza 53.00% 36 geta 4.42% 17 manga 46.01% 37 tori-i 2.65%

91 18 tatami 46.01% 38 suiseki 0.88% 19 kabuki 39.82% 39 kaiten 0.88% 20 sashimi 38.93% 40 kogai 0.00%

It is interesting to note that four words that are not found in the Romanian language dictionaries, but which all refer to things that nowadays are accessible to Romanians (karaoke, tofu, wasabi, anime) obtained a correct answer rate over 50%. On the other hand, words that pertain to the traditional Japanese culture, but are not found in the dictionaries, such as chanoyu, yukata, shoji, ukiyo-e or tori-i obtained much lower correct answer rates, showing that they are less known to the Romanian public.

Two words that are found in only a few of the dictionaries and not in DEX, the most popular one, show very high correct answer rates: sumo (found in two dictionaries, 96.4% in our survey), sushi (found in only one dictionary, 95.5%). On the other hand, several words that have a very restricted use and that can be found in only one or two of the dictionaries of neologisms have very low correct answer rates, showing that they are very little known to Romanian speakers, ex. kogai (0%), kaiten (0.88% - 1 answer), suiseki (0.88%, 1 answer), iaido (7.07%), tanka (7.08%)

Another aspect shown by the results of Questionnaire no. 2 is age-related: it appears that elder respondents tend to know the meaning of words that pertain to the traditional Japanese culture, such as bushidō or chanoyu, while younger respondents tend to better know the meaning of words related to the modern, touchable reality, such as manga, karaoke or tōfu.

Q3 – the third questionnaire was designed in order to determine the frequency of words of Japanese origin in Romanian conversation.

The instructions given to respondents were: “List 1-20 Japanese words (a) that you have used or heard in an everyday Romanian conversation (not in other languages and not in more specialized types of discourse, such as conferences etc.), or (b) that name objects or concepts that are found in your immediate reality, and with which you have frequent contact. The order is not important. Explanations of the words are not required.”

We gathered responses from 43 Romanian native speakers aged between 14 and 65 that do not speak Japanese at all. The 10 most frequent words mentioned in their answers are shown in Figure 4:

Fig. 4 Questionnaire no. 3 – Results

Japanese Frequency of word use 1 sushi 88.37% 2 tofu 72.09 3 ikebana 30.23

92 4 harakiri 30.23 5 manga 27.90 6 geisha 25.58 7 samurai 25.58 8 kamikaze 23.25 9 karate 23.25 10 kimono 20.93

The two most frequent answers were sushi and tofu, even though they are not recorded by the official Romanian language dictionaries2.

Apart from this finding, the overall results are somewhat unexpected, as harakiri, geisha, samurai and kamikaze, do not describe objects in a Romanian’s immediate reality (as opposed to sushi, tofu, ikebana, manga and karate). They are however listed in all nine (kamikaze) or at least eight (harakiri, geisha, samurai) of the dictionaries consulted, and their presence among the words listed in the questionnaire answers demonstrates the respondents’ high degree of familiarity with these terms.

CONCLUSIONS

The present survey, though not an extensive one, does however indicate that Romanian native speakers know the origin and the meaning of more Japanese words than are listed in the main Romanian language dictionaries. A large-scale survey based on similar steps would certainly give a better perspective on the matter and could be a useful tool for lexicologists. We believe that the current Romanian language dictionaries have room for improvement in what concerns the words of Japanese origin they contain and should rely more on the actual, real use of these words, including more words that are frequently used and eliminating others that perhaps have a more proper place in an encyclopedic dictionary and not in a Romanian language dictionary.

REFERENCES

Dimitrescu, F. 2001. “Elemente japoneze recente în limba română”. DACOROMANIA V–VI. Cluj-Napoca, pp. 79–108. Dictionaries: Dimitrescu, F. 1997. Dicţionar de cuvinte recente (DCR 2) 2nd ed. Bucharest: LOGOS. “Iorgu Iordan” Institute of Linguistics of the Romanian Academy. 1998. Dicţionarul explicativ al limbii române (DEX) 2nd ed. Bucharest: Univers Enciclopedic.

2 Sushi appears only in DCR 2, while tofu is not listed in any of the nine dictionaries consulted.

93 “Iorgu Iordan – Al. Rosetti” Institute of Linguistics of the Romanian Academy. 2016. Dicţionarul explicativ al limbii române (DEX) revised 2nd ed. Bucharest: Univers Enciclopedic. “Iorgu Iordan – Al. Rosetti” Institute of Linguistics of the Romanian Academy. 2005. Dicţionarul ortografic, ortoepic şi morphologic al limbii române (DOOM 2). Bucharest: Univers Enciclopedic. “Iorgu Iordan – Al. Rosetti” Institute of Linguistics of the Romanian Academy. 2010. Mic dicţionar academic (MDA), 2 vol. Bucharest: Univers Enciclopedic Gold. Marcu, F. 1986. Constant Maneca. Dicţionar de neologisme. Bucharest: Editura Academiei Republicii Socialiste România. Online dictionaries part of the database at https://dexonline.ro/ : Dicţionarul explicativ al limbii române (DEX), revised 2nd ed, 2009. Marele dicţionar de neologisme (MDN), 2000. Noul dicţionar explicativ al limbii române (NODEX), 2002.

94 INTERPERSONAL RELATIONS IN SOURCE TEXT AND TARGET TEXT IN THE LIGHT OF THE TRANSLATION OF APPELLATIVES

Júlia SOMODI*

Abstract: In this paper the Japanese translation of Hungarian appellatives will be analysed from a pragmatic point of view. Using a parallel corpus of film dialogue texts and their Hungarian translations I have examined the translation of appellatives in dubbed and fan translations of seven Japanese films of different genre with a total duration of 883 minutes which contained 402 appellative forms of address. In my paper I answer the question whether certain translation strategies, such as domestication and foregnization lead to deviation in interpersonal relations (Spencer-Oatey 2004, 2008) between the source and target language texts. Differences regarding interpersonal relations between the two target texts (the official dubbed versions, respectively the fan translations) are also considered. The presentation will also focus on pragmatic shifts, pragmatic gains and pragmatic losses. Keywords: appellatives, audiovisual translation, fan translation, rapport management strategy

I. Introduction This paper presents a part of the results of my doctoral thesis defended in 2015. The paper provides an analysis of the official Hungarian dubbed and fan subtitle translations of appellative forms of address occurring in the utterances in Japanese films. The reason for selecting this topic was twofold: 1) divergent forms of address in the Japanese-Hungarian language pair proved to be fertile ground, but up to now it has been considered as an untapped domain in pragmatically approached translation research; 2) in Hungary there is no translation standard relating to the translation of Japanese films into Hungarian (nor translation principles referring to forms of address). The purpose of the study is to fill this gap. My earlier researches made on smaller corpora (Somodi 2009a, 2009b, 2013, 2014) led to the conclusion that forms of address in the Hungarian translations of the Japanese films are not standardized, often erroneous or sound odd for the practical usage of the Hungarian language. Thus, I consider it important to examine the Hungarian translation of the Japanese films by using descriptive translation study tools and I do believe that the results of my efforts could be useful for the film translation market. This study is both a gap-filling and pioneering work, because such or similar analysis relating to the Hungarian-Japanese language pair has not been made so far.

* Assistant Professor, Károli Gáspár University of The Reformed Church in Hungary

95 The aim of the research is to reveal the typical procedures in translating forms of address in the Japanese-Hungarian language pair within the paradigm of descriptive translation studies by quantitative and qualitative examination based on a large number of source and target language examples taken from Japanese films and their Hungarian film translations. Beyond observing translator behaviour, I also search for principles of decision-making governing specific procedures of translation.

II. Definitions

II.1. Appellatives The notion of appellative forms was introduced by Szarkowska (2012) and she applies it as an alternative term for vocative based on the consideration that in languages without cases similar to vocative, such as Hungarian, the use of the term vocative may be confusing, because it can lead to the confusion of the notions of vocative case and vocative function. In my paper, I consider forms of address as nominative, pronominal and adjectival units of address with appellative function. Both in Hungarian and Japanese, forms of verbal address are governed by normative rules. Hence, they are irrelevant from the pragmatic aspect of analysis. Preliminary research shed light on the fact that appellative forms can clearly be separated from the verbal part of the sentence which enables us to analyse them independently of verbal addresses. In my view, interjections do not come under appellative forms because they do not typify interpersonal relations between the interacting parties. On similar grounds, salutations and other forms of greetings were not covered by the subject matter of the research either. Forms of address belong to those cases of language usage which require extralingual information for their translation (Klaudy 2005; Lakatos-Báldy 2012). The appropriate translation of these language units requires more than just checking the dictionary, viz., wider knowledge about the language and the culture. Beyond denoting who the speaker addressing his or her words to is, appellative forms also have a phatic function. At the same time, forms of address as language units also express the interpersonal relation between the parties in the communication. From the translation point of view, they prove to be an exciting domain in many aspects. There are many differences between the Hungarian and the Japanese systems of appellative forms rooting in culture and practical use of the language, thus, bearing in mind genre specificities and the background knowledge of the target language audience, the translator should always ponder on whether to follow the source or the target language norms during translation. From the pragmatic point of view, it is interesting to examine how the translation of the forms of address influences the development of interpersonal relations between the communicating parties. Content communication is always accompanied by a sort of relational communication which pictures the relation between the speaker and the addressee. Accordingly, audio-visual texts containing mimicry, gestures and

96 intonation, which reveal the relation of the communicating parties, provide a more in-depth examination of forms of address.

II.2. Management of interpersonal relations/rapport management

Instead of the often criticized term (Ide 1989, Matsumoto 1988) politeness Spencer-Oatey (2004, 2008) speaks about interpersonal relations defined in terms of rapport management (the management of harmony-disharmony among people). The reason why I decided to use the term interpersonal relations instead of politeness, was that in the case of Japanese, where relation to others in the group and the acceptance by others is more important than the preservation of one’s own territory or face (Matsumoto 1988: 405), the term interpersonal relationships and rapport management (instead of face) seemed more proper. In this paper I will discuss positive rapport management strategies (indicating closeness and familiarity) based on Spencer-Oatey and Brown&Levinson (1987), respectively negative rapport management strategies (indicating deference and reservedness).

II.3. Domestication (overt translation) and foregnization (covert translation). In creating her system for translation evaluations, House (1997) points out the difference between overt and covert translation. Film subtitles (hence fan subtitles as well) belong to the category of overt translations, namely, they also provide access to the original text (Pérez-Gonzáles 2009: 20), while in the case of covert translation – to which dubbing belongs – the translator remains invisible, the aim is to produce such translation by which the viewers do not notice that they are watching a foreign film. Venuti (1995) speaks about the same thing, when writing about the translator’s invisibility. Venuti in his work describes the translator’s situation in the Anglo-American culture, and he argues that a translated text is acceptable when it can be read fluently, it is transparent and it seems to the reader that he is reading the original text and not a translation (Venuti 1995: 1).

III. Research questions 1) Can we observe deviation in interpersonal relations (Spencer-Oatey 2004, 2008) between the source and target language texts? 2) Does the illocutionary force-modulating role of appellative forms played in speech act compared to the source language text changes in the target language text due to interpersonal alterations (Austin 1997; Szili 2004)?; 3) Is domestication or foreignization (Venuti 1995) the typical procedure in translating appellatives?

III.1. Research Hypotheses 1) In view of interpersonal relations, a deviation between the source and the target language texts may be established due to the specificities of overt and covert translation (House 1997, 2001) and the differences in

97 language norms. The Japanese language belongs to the group of distancing cultures, while the Hungarian language puts in the fore politeness and familiarity (Szili 2004; Wierzbiczka 1991; Akutsu 2009), thus the translator will apply more forms of address fitting in the target language system of norms. Consequently, the Hungarian text will have more appellatives as language units indicating positive rapport management strategy (Spencer-Oatey 2008) than the Japanese text. Further on, previous research (Hatim & Mason 2000; Bruti & Perego 2008; Szarkowska 2007) shows that due to time and space restrictions, appellatives are often omitted from translations. 2) Prefix changes occurring in the rapport management strategy intensify or weaken the illocutionary force of the source language speech act. In dubbed translations produced along different translation strategies and in fan translations, respectively, due to the rapport management strategy expressed by the source language appellative form of address, there are cases in which, in a given speech act, the same source language utterance has different illocutionary forces in both types of target language texts.; 3) The composition of the target audience of dubbed and fan translations is different. Furthermore, in dubbed translations, the spoken language is translated to spoken language, while in fan translations the spoken language is converted to written text by the translator. Due to the above- mentioned differences, translators will follow dissimilar strategies during translating. Domestication is typical of dubbed translations made along covert translation strategies, while foreignization is more distinctive in fan translations targeted towards fans. Consequently, dubbed utterances will be closer to the real use of the Hungarian language.

III.2. Corpus I had a parallel Japanese-Hungarian corpus at my disposal for analysis purposes while for evaluating translations I used a single language Hungarian corpus. I analysed the dubbed and fan translations of seven Japanese films of different genre of a total duration of 883 minutes which contained 402 appellative forms of address. (These films were: Tokyo Sonata; Achilles and the Tortoise; Nana; Honey and Clover; The Twilight Samurai; My Neighbour Totoro; My Neighbours the Yamadas and their official Hungarian dubbed translation and fan translation). My aim was to select such dialogues which cover real elements of appellative forms used in everyday speech bearing in mind the age, sex and the social and power relation between/among the parties participating in the interaction. In the Hungarian original corpus I selected Hungarian films of a total duration of 722 minutes and their genre corresponded to the genres of the parallel corpus. These films contained 488 language examples (appellative forms of address). (Barátok közt/Among Friends/; Jóban Rosszban /Through Thick and Tin/; Konyec - Utolsó csekk a pohárban/The End - The Last Check in the Cup/; A kőszívű ember fiai /The Sons of the Coldhearted Man/; Légy jó mindhalálig/Be

98 Good Until You Die/; Üvegtigris 2 /Glass Tiger 2/; Hahó, Öcsi! /Hey, Junior/)

IV. Examination method

I analysed dialogues in Japanese films and Hungarian translations. Bearing in mind the principles of representativeness, I took as a basis the works of different translators,. Thus I avoided treating individual specificities of translators as general solutions in translating. Contrary to meticulously prepared situations of the sociolinguistic research, with the help of film dialogues, forms of address can be examined within a context in a more natural linguistic environment. Using a parallel corpus of film dialogue texts and their Hungarian translations I examined the translation of appellative linguistic units. Since my paper discusses forms of address from a pragmatic approach, it is not my aim to examine differences between dialects. This research puts emphasis on the modern, standard Japanese language. Linguistic examples taken from the parallel corpus were uploaded in a computer database with coordinated source language and target language data. I selected utterances containing appellative forms manually from the Japanese original and the two target language dialogue lists, then I arranged source language and target language examples in a parallel table. Examination results were collated with appellative forms applied in the original Hungarian corpus.

IV.1. Research Results IV.1.1. Way of addressing people in Japanese and Hungarian

If we compare the system of appellatives and the way we address people in the two languages, several differences can be found. From a pragmatic point of view, the following three differences are important:

1) Although both the Japanese and the Hungarian society are hierarchical in structure, the manifestation of power relation (the so called senpai-kôhai relationship) has got much more emphasis in Japanese than in Hungarian. This tendency is reflected also in the system of appellatives. When addressing older family members in Japanese, one uses kinship terms, while for addressing younger family members, one uses first names or nicknames. In Hungarian, however, one can address older brothers or sisters, aunts or uncles by their first names. Similarly, in work places the tendency of calling each other by titles or family names with suffixes is common in Japanese, while in Hungarian the use of first names is common. 2) Similarly, the phases of transition from the formal way of addressing to the informal one between interlocutors are governed by stricter language norms in Japanese than in Hungarian. 3) In Hungarian, there is a tendency of using endearing address forms (honey, dear, baby, my son, etc.), while in Japanese no such forms exist.

99 (Somodi 2014)

IV.1.2. The proportion of appellatives in the source texts and target texts

Chart 1 presents the number of appellative forms in the original, respectively in the translated texts. The first column of the chart contains the title of the films, the second column shows the number of appellatives found in the source texts, the third column shows the number of appellatives found in the dubbed versions, while in the last column we can see the number of appellatives in fan translations. If we look at the number of appellative forms in the parallel corpora, we can see that there are 14.67% more appellative forms in dubbed translations than in the source language text. Fan translations show an opposite tendency. In four of the seven films analysed, the number of appellative forms is smaller in translations and there are 4.47% fewer appellative forms of address in the target language text than in the original. Consequently, there is a difference between dubbed, i.e. translating spoken language to spoken language and fan translation, i.e. translating spoken language to written language.

Chart 1. Number of appellative forms of address in Japanese films and their Hungarian translations

Films ST TT 1 (dubbed) TT 2 (fan transl.) TS (Tokyo Sonata) 37 57 30 N (Nana) 49 65 54 AT (Achilles and the 29 33 24 Tortoise) HC (Honey and Clover) 54 50 54 TwS (The Twilight 83 97 67 Samurai) T (My Neighbour, 80 75 78 Totoro) Y (The Yamadas) 70 84 77 Altogether 402 461 384↓

IV.1.3. Deviation in interpersonal relations (Pragmatic shifts)

One phenomenon which became visible has risen to view during analysing the corpus, was that there are pragmatical differences in the source and target language utterances. Due to translation, it happens that the original pragmatic features of the appellative form change but not to an extent which would impair equivalence relations. However, they have an impact on the quality of interpersonal relations. These are called pragmatic shifts. In the case of appellative forms of address, pragmatic shifts are such lexical changes, which more or less modulate the illocutionary force of utterances, the illocutionary and perlocutionary act and influence rapport management (i.e. lead to interpersonal shift).

100 There are two types of pragmatic shifts: 1) changing positive rapport strategy to a negative one during translating; 2) changing negative rapport strategy to a positive one during translating. In the former one, appellatives indicating closeness, intimity are translated with appellatives which show reservedness or deference. For example, the kinship term ojisan used for a non- family member, is replaced by the more formal address form, sir in translation. In the case of the latter, appellatives expressing deference are replaced by appellatives showing positive rapport strategy, i.e. the last name + san (Hanamoto-san) appears as Hagumi (first name) in the target language text. In dubbed translations, changing positive rapport strategy into negative was typical only in 1.68% of the cases, while in fan subtitles this proportion was 0.41%. The share of changing negative rapport strategy into positive in dubbed translations is 9.98% while it is 1.66% in fan subtitles. Based on the results of the analysis, we can assume that approaching target language standards can be behind the decisions of translators observing the domestication procedure. Since dubbed translations follow the strategy of domestication, while fan versions the strategy of foreignization, we can detect interpersonal relationship differences in the two target language texts. Figure 1 illustrates the proportion of appellatives expressing positive and negative rapport strategy in the Hungarian (HC on the figure), respectively Japanese (JC) language corpus. We can see that the Hungarian language corpus contains appellatives expressing positive rapport management strategy in a higher proportion (73%), than the Japanese language corpus does (66%).

Figure 1. Rapport management strategies in HC and JC

Differences in interpersonal relationships occurred in official and fan translations are illustrated in Chart 2.

Chart 2. An example of pragmatic shift difference in interpersonal relationship between dubbed and fan translation

Serial Code Participants ST TT 1 (D) TT 2 Time nr. in (F) interaction 270 N 1.r Tenant-Real ありがとう、安藤さ Thank Thank 00:19:28 estate Agent ん。 Arigatô, Andô you very, you san. very very

101 much, much, Uncle Andou Andô san

The fan translation of the utterance in Chart 2 applies the foreignization strategy and keeps the original form of surname+san, which does not indicate the closeness expressed by the relation marker uncle in the official version.

IV.1.4. Illocutionary force modulation

During the analysis, I have concluded that 25% of the appellative forms change their prefixes, beyond the changes in interpersonal relations and also modulate the illocutionary force of speech acts.

Chart 3. Illocutionary Force Modulation

Seri Code Participan ST TT Time al ts in nr. Interactio n 237 TS (D) Father-son たかし、家を出て行くのは My son,/ I 00:53: いい、でもアメリカやめて don’t care if you 26 おけ。/Takashi, ie wo dete leave us,/ but iku no wa ii, demo Amerika don’t go to yamete oke. America. 282 (N 2nd Friends そう思う！奈奈！ /Sô I agree, dear 00:20: p.) omou! Nana! Nana! 24

In the first example in Chart 3, instead of the form of address by the given name (Takashi) from the source language dialogue, the address in the target language (dubbed version) is a relationship-marking my son affixed with possessive personal inflection in the Hungarian translation. The original address by the given name also serves to intensify the speech act's illocutionary force, but the form indicating closeness applied in the translation further bolster the strength of the intensifying force. In the second example, in the source text the character’s first name, Nana is used, while in the translation an endearing adjective (dear) is used before the first name, which intensifies the illocutionary force of the speech act.

IV.1.5. Pragmatic Gains/Surplus

In the translation of appellative forms of address, besides pragmatic shifts, there are also significant pragmatic losses and pragmatic gains/surplus, respectively. These two phenomena are in close relationship with the omission and insertion of appellative forms.

102 As far as is known, the notion of pragmatic gains/surplus is used for the first time by the author of this paper and in my interpretation it means that during translating the appellative form inserted in the utterance enriches the pragmatic functions of the original utterance. Pragmatic gains/surplus can lead to changes in rapport management. Inserting an endearing address in translation, for example, intensifies affection or empathy between the characters or modulates the illocutionary force of the utterance or can even change the illocutionary act. Based on the analysis of the inserted appellative forms of address, it can be concluded that the inserted elements are positive rapport strategy addresses, such as endearing addresses with possessive personal affixes (honey, baby, darling), relation markers with possessive personal affixes and sometimes with attributes (sir, my good sir, my lord), words indicating kinship with personal inflections (my son, my girl/daughter) and addresses by the given name. The insertion of these elements already strengthens the interpersonal relationship between the dyads, intensifies their mutual affection and familiarity. Furthermore, their link to speech acts plays a role in modulating the illocutionary act and the illocutionary force of the speech act. Chart 4 shows such utterances in which the official translation contains an inserted appellative form of address, but there is no such appellative form in fan translation. The element of address inserted in dubbed translations modulates the illocutionary force of the target language utterance and, on top of that, causes change in the rapport management.

Chart 4. Examples for pragmatic surplus

Serial Code Participants ST TT 1 ( D) TT 2 Time nr. in the (F) interaction 262 N Real estate 見にいってみ Let’s look Would 00:15:22 agent-tanent る？/Mi ni itte at it, you like miru? dear! to look at it? 230 TS student-teacher ありがとうござ Thank Thank 00:44:31 いました。 you, you! /Arigatô teacher! gozaimashita.

The utterance in the first example of Chart 4 is going on between the old real estate agent and the 19-year-old Nana, who moved to Tokyo. The verb of the original Japanese sentence Mi ni itte miru? is used in its colloquial form and has six syllables and in Hungarian it reads: Megnézed?/ Megnézzük? (Want to see for yourself?/Shall we have a look at it? ). The Hungarian equivalent without a form of address is only a three-syllable word, but the number of syllables in the version with an address equals the number of

103 syllables in the original utterance. However, the translator could have opted for a sentence without a form of address (e.g. Would you like to look at it?), so we can rightly presume that the translator was governed in his/her decision to fit in the customary Hungarian language use, which frequently applies endearing addresses. The second utterance is going on between a teacher and her student. While the source text utterance contains just an expression of gratitude (Thank you!), the dubbing version includes an appellative (teacher) as well, thus blustering the illocutionary force of the speech act. The fan translation does not contain any appellative. There is no precise information about translator decisions behind inserting appellative forms of address in the source language text, but the possibilities are as follows: 1) adjusting the target language utterance to the actor's lip movement; 2) adjusting source language salutation form to customary target language usage; 3) first appearance of the actor (for identifying purposes); 4) turning bound form into free form in the translated text. We do not know if it was a conscious insertion, or what governed the translator during insertion, but whatever was behind the translator's decision, the insertion made the interpersonal relationship between the interacting parties more intensive in the text of the dubbed translation.

IV.1.6. Pragmatic Loss

We talk about pragmatic loss in such cases when, due to the omission of the appellative form of address from the target language text, the original pragmatic features of the utterance disappear. Pragmatic loss can affect the decrease of the utterance's illocutionary force, rapport management, etc. Principally, pragmatic loss is typical in fan translations. In dubbed translations, pragmatic loss can be established only in 4.28% of the forms of address in target language texts. This proportion is 6.43% in fan translations. In the example from Chart 5, in the source language utterance the address is surname+san and in its dubbed version the relation marker is surname+sir, while the fan translation contains no appellative address.

Chart 5. An example for pragmatic loss

Ser Co Particip ST TT 1 (D) TT 2 (F) Time ial de ants in nr. the interact ion 206 TS Head 佐々木さん、申 Mr. Sasaki, I’m sorry to 00:15: hunter- し上げにくいん I’m sorry to have to say but 32 company ですが以前と同 say,/but it is it’s almost -job 100% sure that impossible that じ条件というの seeker you can’t get you get back

104 は100％あり得ま your earlier your earlier せん。/ position back. position. Sasaki san, môshi age nikui n desu ga, izen to onaji jôken to iu no wa 100% ariemasen.

The source language appellative form has the role to intensify the illocutionary force of the speech act of apology and so does the element of address in the dubbed translation. There is no form of address in the fan translation, hence we can speak about pragmatic loss with regard to the modulation of the illocutionary force. The appellative address's pragmatic function in the original text is to manage conversation and within that to identify the actor. The appellative address of the dubbed version has similar pragmatic functions. Yet again, we can speak of pragmatic loss in the fan translation. The original surname+san suffix and the relation marker of the appellative address in dubbed translation, surname+ sir, both mark the negative rapport managing strategy. And again there is a pragmatic loss in the fan translation. Formal style prevails in both corpora. In the corpus, omitting appellative forms of address was typical in the following cases: 1) adjusting the number of syllables in translation to the length of the original verbal utterance; 2) adjustments in the use of personal pronouns to the customary use of the Hungarian language; 3) owing to the specificities of the Hungarian language, the original appellative address is implicitly integrated in the target language text in the form of personal markers and personal inflections. Figure 2 shows the proportion of pragmatic shifts, pragmatic gains and losses in dubbing and fan translation. Based on the results we can say that pragmatic shifts are typical of dubbing, it represents 11.50% in dubbing, while in fan translation it shows 1.54%. Pragmatic gains as well are typical to dubbing, reaching 20.60% in dubbing and only 4.09% in fan translations. Pragmatic losses however are typical of fan translations.

Figure 2. Proportion of pragmatic shifts, gains and losses in the target texts

105

IV.1.7. Domestication and Foreignization in the Dubbed and Fan Translations

The dichotomy of domestication and foreignization, respectively the visibility and invisibility of the translator is present in audio-visual translation as well. In the subtitle placed on the screen, the translator is visible, the viewer is aware of the fact that he or she is watching a foreign movie. However, the dubbed translation must evoke in the viewer the feeling that he or she is watching a movie in his or her own language. Fan translation in turn belongs to subtitling, but in most cases the translators remain invisible in the sense that their names are unknown. As a conclusion, it can be stated that in line with the results of the preliminary research, the dubbed versions of the analysed Japanese films are aimed at the translator's invisibility. The translators seek equivalents along the principle of domestication for a given Japanese appellative form of address, keeping in mind all the time the standards of the target language. Contrarily, fan translations are mostly characterised by foreignization. This phenomenon occurs in the translation of personal pronoun suffixes, personal pronouns, titles, and formal appellations, where the Japanese origin appellations were represented in the analysed corpus in high proportions. In fan translations, foreignization can be detected in 20% (77 cases) of the appellatives. Regarding the transcription of the Japanese personal names, it can be concluded without any meticulous analysis that fan translations follow the rule of foreignization, i.e. names are transcribed according to the Hepburn transcription system, and the order of first names, respectively family names follows also this rule. Contrarily, dubbed versions use the Hungarian transcription system and the order of names remains the same as in the Japanese original, which is in fact the case of the Hungarian language as well. Figure 3 shows the proportion of appellatives in dubbed and fan translations. The blue columns show the proportion of appellatives in the dubbed versions, while the grey ones those present in the fan translations. A great difference can be observed in the case of the translation of the suffixes used with personal names. While in fan translations the use of suffixes after personal names reached 19. 81%, and suffixes like kun, san, chan, etc. were preserved in the

106 Hungarian translation, in dubbed versions this proportion is 0%, which means that dubbed versions follow the domesticating translation method. Figure 3 also shows that a greater proportion of personal names was used in the dubbed versions, 56. 60% than in fan translations (37.60%). Moreover, dubbed versions, following the norms of domestication, use first names or endearing terms in translation instead of family names (i.e. in student-teacher relationships). Another difference can be noticed in the use of endearing terms in the target language texts. While in fan translations which apply foreignization, this proportion reached only 3. 30%, in dubbed versions it covered almost 10%. This phenomenon also demonstrates that dubbed translations tend to apply the target language norms, while fan translations show an opposite tendency.

Figure 3. Proportion of appellative address forms in dubbed and fan translations

V. Conclusion

Based on the results, I reached the conclusion that, contrary to the results of the preliminary research, Hungarian dubbed translations of Japanese films are not characterized by the omission of forms of address, but, on the contrary, by their insertion, and because of that interpersonal relations in the target language get a new weight. To describe this phenomenon I introduced the notion of pragmatic gain/surplus. Regarding the first hypothesis, the suppositions were true only for the dubbed versions, which apply the techniques domestication. On the other hand, fan translations tended to preserve the appellatives which were present in the source text. The second hypothesis regarding the modulation of illocutionary force has been varified. The omission or insertion of appellatives causes modulation in the illocutionary force of the speech acts.

107 Furthermore I established that, in view of the issue of domestication - foreignization, the results of the present research are in accordance with earlier observations, i.e. that dubbed translations prefer the domestication procedure, while fan subtitles prefer foreignization translation strategies. Not addressing the analysis of subtitled films can be indicated as a defect of the research. In this paper I dealt with translation-related issues of appellative forms of address in dubbed and fan translated Japanese films. It is, therefore, necessary to implement a similar examination in the domain of subtitled films in the future. At present, the Hungarian translations of Japanese films for dubbed translations and for subtitles, except for a few examples, are not made by professional translators, while fan translations are produced by amateur translators. Hopefully, the observations and the results of this research could be utilized in the education of translators and would be useful for the translators of Japanese films.

REFERENCES Austin, J. L. 1997. Tetten ért szavak. In: Pléh Cs. (et. al. szerk.) Nyelv- kommunikáció-cselekvés. Budapest: Osiris Kiadó. 2942. Akutsu, Y. 2009. Positive Politeness Strategies in Oral Communication In Textbooks. - Focusing on Terms of Address-. The Economic Journal of Takasaki City University of Economics. Vol. 52. No. 1. 5970. Brown, P., Levinson, S. 1987. Politeness: Some Universals in Language Usage. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bruti, S., Perego, E. 2008. Vocatives in Subtitles. A Survey Across Genres. Ecolingua. 1151. Hatim, B., Mason, I. 2000. Politeness in Screen Translation. In: Venuti, L. (ed.) The Translation Studies Reader. London/ New York: Routledge: 430445. House, J. 1997. Translation Quality Assessment: A Model Revisited. Tübingen: Narr Verlag. House, J. 2001. Translation Quality Assessment: Linguistic Description versus Social Evaluation. In: Meta. Vol. 46. No. 2. 243257. Ide, S. 1989. Formal Forms and Discernment: Two Neglected Aspects of Universals of Linguistic Politeness. Multilingua. Vol.8. No. 2-3. 223248. Klaudy K. 2005. Bevezetés a fordítás gyakorlatába. Budapest: Scholastica. Lakatos-Báldy Zs. 2012. Kulturális reáliák a filmfordításbankülönös tekintettel a nyelvhasználat reáliáira. In: Dróth J. (szerk.) Szaknyelv és szakfordítás. Gödöllő: Szent István Egyetem. Nyelvi Központ. 6986. Matsumoto, Y. 1988. Reexamination of the universality of Face: Politeness phenomena in Japanese. Journal of Pragmatics Vol. 12. 403–426. Pérez-Gonzáles, L. 2009. Audiovisual Translation. In: Baker, M., Saldanha, G. (ed.) Routledge Encyclopedia of Translation Studies. London/New York. 1320. Somodi J. 2009a. Fordítási univerzálék a japán megszólítási rendszer magyar fordításában./Universialiae in the Hungarian Translation of the Japanese

108 System of Appellative Forms/ Fordítástudomány. Year XI. No. 2, 70−82. Somodi J. 2009b. A japán megszólítási rendszer egy japán regény fordításának tükrében /The Japanese System of Appellative Forms in the Light of a Japanese Novel Translation/ In: Nádor O. (ed.) A magyar, mint európai és világnyelv /Hungarian as an European and world language/. Lectures of the XVIIIth Congress on Hungarian Applied Linguistics, Balassi Institute, Budapest. 3 - 5 April 2008 MANYE Vol. 5/2. 641−647. Somodi J. 2013. Fordítói jelenlét a japán filmek magyar fordításában /Translator Presence in the Hungarian Translation of Japanese Films/ Fordítástudomány.Year XV. No. 75−92. Somodi, J. 2014. Pragmatics of Address Terms in Japanese-Hungarian Comparison. Investigation of the Translation of Japanese Appellative Forms of Address in Hungarian Film Dialogue Texts. (Doctoral theses, manuscript). Spencer-Oatey, H. (ed.). 2004. Culturally Speaking. Managing rapport Through Talk Across Cultures. New York: Continuum Int. Publishing Group. Spencer-Oatey, H. (ed.) 2008. Culturally Speaking. Culture, Communication and Politeness Theory. New York: Continuum Int. Publishing Group. Szarkowska, A. 2007. Why Are Some Forms of Address not Omitted in Subtitling? A Study Based on Three Selected Polish Soaps Broadcast on TV Polonia. Intermedia 2007. Lódz Conference on Interpreting and Audiovisual Translation. 13-13 April, 2007. University of Lódz . Szarkowska, A. 2012. Forms of Address in Polish-English Subtitling. Berlin: Peter Lang. Szili K. 2004. Tetté vált szavak. Budapest: Tinta Könyvkiadó. Venuti 1995. The Translator’s Invisibility. London & NY: Routledge. Wierzbicka, A. 1991. Cross-cultural Pragmatis: The Semantics of Human Interaction. Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter.

Sources Japanese films: Akiresu to kame – Achilles and the Tortoise, 2008. Producer: Kitano, T. (Hungarian translation: Imri L.) Tasogare Seibei – The Twilight Samurai, 2002. Producer: Yamada, Y. (Hungarian translation:Igarashiné Szabó A.). Hachimitsu to clover – Honey and Clover (anime) 2005-2006. 1. season 1-5. parts. Producer: Kasai,K. (Hungarian translation: Basa Zs., Koch Z.) Hôhokekyo, tonari no Yamada kun – My Neighbours the Yamadas, 1999. Producer: Isao, T. (Hungarian translation: Illés J.) Nana – Nana (anime) 2006-2007. 1. évad 1-10. Producer: Morio, A. (Hungarian translation: Imri L. és Varga F.).

109 Tonari no Totoro – My Neighbour Totoro. 1998. Producer: Miyazaki, H. (Hungarian translation: Joó E.) Tôkyô Sonata – Tokyo Sonata, 2008. Producer: Kurosawa, K. (Hungarian translation: Imri L.)

Hungarian films:

Konyec-Az utolsó csekk a pohárban. /The End - The Last Check in the Cup/ 2007. Producer: Rohonyi G. Üvegtigris 2. /Glass Tiger 2./ 2006. Producer: Rudolf P. Hahó, Öcsi! /Hey, Junior/ 1971. Producer: Palásthy Gy. Légy jó mindhalálig! /Be Good Until You Die/ 1960. Producer: Ranódi L. A kőszívű ember fiai. /The Sons of the Coldhearted Man/ 1964. Producer: Várkonyi Z. Jóban, rosszban. /Through Thick and Tin/ 2014.Year 10. (2341-2344). Producer: Pajer R., Szarka J., Zilahy T., Nagy T. Barátok közt. /Among Friends/2014. Year 16. (6899-6910). Producer: Ardai T., Labancz I.,Márton I., Molnár J.,Rozgonyi Á.

110

CULTURAL STUDIES

WAS LAFCADIO HEARN’S PROPHECY ABOUT JAPANESE MIGRANTS IN GUADELOUPE RIGHT? THE BACKGROUND OF THE 1895 JAPANESE WORKERS’S LABOUR MOVEMENT

Brendan LE ROUX

Abstract: On November 2, 1894, the famous author Lafcadio Hearn wrote an editorial in the Kobe Chronicle, where he developed a rather prophetic vision regarding the situation of some 490 Japanese labourers that had been sent only two weeks earlier to Guadeloupe, a French colony in the Caribbean Sea, in order to work in sugar cane plantations or in the sugar industry. In this article, Hearn warns that the conditions on the French island are totally unsuited to Japanese emigration, for several reasons. In this paper, after having summed up the historical background of migrant labour in Guadeloupe, we will first explain why and how 490 Japanese migrants were sent to Guadeloupe and we will present a few important facts, some of them previously unveiled, about these Japanese labourers in the French colony. Then, we will examine Hearn’s statement about the future failure of that immigration, and try to cross it with historical facts. We will try to demonstrate that, whereas Hearn had quite well analysed the situation of the colony in many respects, his views were quite biased, and that he has somehow missed some key elements that can explain why the Japanese migrants could instigate an important labour movement. Keywords: Japanese migrants, labour movements, Guadeloupe, Lafcadio Hearn, French colonies

I. Introduction On November 9, 1895, the weekly newspaper The Louisiana Planter and Sugar Manufacturer from New Orleans, LA, published the following article on its front page.

“Japanese Laborers on the Sugar Plantations in Guadeloupe According to the Journal La Verite [sic], published in Guadeloupe, a number of Japanese employed there have recently refused to work under the contracts under which they are imported, and a general strike on the part of all those employed seemed probable, with the prospect of some trouble resulting therefrom. Many of our planters remember the slight invasion of Louisiana by the Chinese some twenty-five years ago, and now our confrères in Guadeloupe seem to be having similar experience. La Verité says that, notwithstanding an ample supply of tea, warm baths,

 Lecturer, Teikyo University

112 ample repasts and seductive salaries offered them, they seem to have no desire but to return to their empire under the rising sun. There are quite a number employed altogether in Guadeloupe, and it is thought that there may be a general uprising among them. This seems quite different from the experience with the Japanese in the Sandwich Islands, where they have now become so numerous that there seems some danger of their becoming a dominant factor in Sandwich Island politics1.” From this article, we can pick up a few striking and not very well known facts. First, that by 1895, “quite a number” of Japanese workers had been “imported” to Guadeloupe, a French colony within the Lesser Antilles in the Caribbean Sea, lying 6,200 km from Metropolitan France, and also “10,800 miles2” from Japan. Second, according to the title of the article, that these Japanese workers were employed on “sugar plantations in Guadeloupe”, sugar cane being the main agricultural product, and sugar the main manufactured product of that French colony at the time. This point is also the reason why this piece of news was published as far as New Orleans, in a newspaper targeting “planter[s] and sugar manufacturer[s]”, which could happen to face the same kind of situation described within the article. As a matter of fact, those planters from Louisiana seem to have already suffered from a “slight invasion of Louisiana by the Chinese some twenty-five years” earlier, and are very concerned by the fact that their “confrères in Guadeloupe seem to be having similar experience3”. Then, last but not least, we learn that by November 1895, these Japanese labourers employed in the sugar cane fields in Guadeloupe were refusing to work and that “a general strike on the part of all those employed seemed probable”, a terrible situation from the viewpoint of a planter, which could even turn into “some trouble”. From these facts, a few questions arise, to which we will try to answer in this article. First, who were these Japanese labourers in Guadeloupe, how many of them were “imported” there and how? Second, what was the situation that led them to refuse to work and why did they seem ready to start a general strike? And third, was it the first labour movement led by Japanese workers on French soil? However, before trying to answer all these questions, it is important to start with

1 We would like to thank here Mr Greg Robinson, professor of American History at the Université du Québec à Montréal (UQAM), for this very precious document. 2 1 mile being approximately 1.6 km, the distance between Guadeloupe and Japan would be approximately 17,300 km according to sources of that time: 「南北亜米利加の中間、北大西洋の南部に碁布する西印度群島の一にして、日本を距る 1 万 800 哩余」（平賀家文書「移民事業関係書」）. 3 The use of the French word “confrère” here, meaning “colleague”, or “fellow member”, is also interesting, revealing how the planters and sugar manufacturers from Louisiana sympathize with their French counterparts. It also reveals the existence of an international class of planters, sharing the same interests against the labourers, migrant workers and/or local peasants.

113 some explanations about the history of Guadeloupe, especially the background that led to the arrival of migrant labourers there.

II. The historical background of migrant labour in Guadeloupe

The history of Guadeloupe within the integrated “World History”, considered as the history of the world centred on Europe, begins in 1493, when Christopher Columbus “discovers” the island during his second travel to the “New World”. The indigenous peoples already living there for many centuries are soon to be wiped out, and by 1640, the introduction of slaves from Africa begins in the new colony, upon which France had claimed property around 1635. Guadeloupe is thus one of the first French colonies, belonging to its first colonial empire, and will cease to be considered a colony only in 1946, when it becomes a full French “département” (an administrative unit), which it is still nowadays. Guadeloupe’s history is strongly linked with that of slavery, an important number of slaves having been imported there from Africa, and with that of sugar cane, the culture of which slaves were being imported and used for. Sugar remained for centuries the main product of the French colonies in the Antilles, leading to the birth and rise of a rich class of slave-owning planters, basically controlling the economical, political and social life of those colonies. This situation did not really evolve when slavery was abolished for good in April 18484, following decades of fierce debates between abolitionists and pro- slavers, and a first attempt of abolition in 1794, under the French Revolutionary Government. But then, planters were to face a new problem: that is to say that Creole workers, freed from slavery, did not want to go back to work again on the plantations, even as paid employees, a state of mind easily understandable, as stated by a black member of the “Conseil Général5”, Jean-Louis, in 1883: “For the former slave, or for his children […], going back to the sugar cane as a paid employee was more or less to fall again in slavery, and, even with a salary being raised, it was a binding that he did not want anymore” (Schnakenbourg, 2007: 30). As a consequence, as the many decisions taken after 1848 to put the Creole labourers back to work on the plantations did not see positive results, rich planters began in the mid-1850’s to plan on introducing workers from other countries to replace those local labourers on their sugar cane fields. Therefore, in 1857, immigration of African workers, mainly from the Congo area, started, but it was soon to be criticized as “hidden slavery”. In 1859, the introduction of Chinese workers also started, however, as other experimentations conducted during the same period (immigrants from Southern France or from Portuguese islands), the

4 The decision took effect in May in Guadeloupe. 5 The “Conseil Général” or General Council of Guadeloupe was the elected assembly of the colony, having powers of decision regarding certain matters in the colony, but being placed under the authority of the Governor, not elected but named by the Metropolitan Government. For more precise explanations concerning the “Conseil Général”, see NIORT, J-F., « Les vicissitudes d'une assemblée coloniale: un bref survol de l’évolution institutionnelle du Conseil général au XIXe siècle ».

114 results were not satisfactory enough for the planters’ elite. It was at this moment, in July 1861, that France was able to sign an important agreement about the introduction of labourers that were to become the most important immigrant working force in the French colonies for the second half of the 19th century. From that date, French planters were authorized to “import” labourers from the British colonies of India, the so-called “coolies”, mainly for five-year contracts. Then, by the end of the 19th century, approximately 43,000 Indians had been sent to Guadeloupe, representing roughly 85% of the foreign labour force6, and exerting a rather strong influence on the colony’s economical, social, cultural and political structures. Such a system of importing contract workers, free to go back home after the end of their five-year contracts, was of course extremely different from slavery, and however it had certain similarities, in the sense that the introduction of such a number of people from different cultural and religious backgrounds in such a short time could not be without consequences on the local societies7. For the planters, the system had its flaws: such imported labourers were 5 to 6% more expensive than Creole workers, they suffered from high mortality and absenteeism rates, and their productivity, mainly because of climatic and environmental factors, was less than that of local workers. But, of course, the advantages of the system surpassed the flaws: it gave birth to a very stable and flexible work force, different from slavery but more or less close to serfdom, and, above all, it introduced concurrence on the local labour market, which prevented Creole workers from opposing planters about salaries and working conditions. This latter argument was probably the reason why such a system could continue for decades, despite the high costs it implied. It can also explain why, while the Caribbean colonies were suffering from a sugar overproduction crisis from 1884- 1885, which led to an important decline in the number of workers employed in the sugar industry (see chart 1), and while the British government stopped the Indian immigration to Guadeloupe in 1889, “quite a number” of Japanese labourers could be imported in Guadeloupe in December 1894.

6 Numbers vary depending on sources, from 42,326 (Schmidt, p.328), to 42,595 (Kodama, p.11), or even 44,553 (Schnakenbourg, 2007: 49, 66). 7 This is another point raised in the article from The Louisiana Planter and Sugar Manufacturer quoted in the beginning, where it is said that the situation in Guadeloupe “seems quite different from the experience with the Japanese in the Sandwich Islands (Hawaii), where they have now become so numerous that there seems some danger of their becoming a dominant factor in Sandwich Island politics.”

115 Chart 1 Drawn by the author from SCHNAKENBOURG, T.II, p10, p. 29; T.III, p.74.

Number of workers in the sugar industry

III. Japanese labourers in Guadeloupe

1. The envoy of Japanese migrants to Guadeloupe It is then on December 20, 1894, that 490 Japanese workers, all men, arrived in Pointe-à-Pitre, the main harbour of the French colony of Guadeloupe. They had left Kōbe two months earlier, on October 17, and were travelling on board the “Nippon Yūsen” (日本郵船, Japan Mail Shipping Line) ship Sendai-maru (仙台丸). Amongst these almost 500 men, 187 were from Hiroshima Prefecture (38.2%), 153 from Wakayama Prefecture (31.2%), and 130 from Yamaguchi Prefecture (26.5%), these three prefectures having already furnished an important contingent of Japanese emigrants since the beginning of the Meiji period (1868- 1912). The other few men were from Niigata Prefecture (15, 3.1%) and Gifu Prefecture (5, 1.0%), areas less known for their involvement in the important migration movements of the time (Ishikawa, 1983: 134, and Kodama, 1983: 31, for the numbers). The envoy of these Japanese labourers in Guadeloupe was undertaken by the Nippon Kissa Imingaisha (日本吉佐移民会社), Japan’s first private society of emigration, founded in December 1891 with the support of the Japanese Government, especially that of the Minister of Foreign Affairs Enomoto Takeaki (榎本武揚, 1836-1908). The first undertaking of this company was, as a matter of fact, to send 600 Japanese workers (all men from Kumamoto Prefecture) to the French colony of New Caledonia, in the South Pacific Ocean, in order to work in the nickel industry, flourishing at the time. This took place in January 1892, and a few months later, in August, the French Under-secretary of State in charge of the Colonies sent a letter to the Governors of Guadeloupe and Guyana (another French colony, bordering Brazil), announcing the success of that undertaking. This is the first link we could find yet between Japanese immigration and

116 Guadeloupe, the Under-secretary of State stating in his letter to the Governors that he “thought it would be interesting to inform [them] about this source of recruitment, which might give to G[uadeloupe or Guyana] the labour that it is needing8”. Then, some eighteen months later, in February 1894, the President of the “Société du Crédit Foncier Colonial” (CFC: Colonial Landed Credit Bank), a bank founded in 1860 in order to facilitate investments for the building and equipment of sugar producing facilities, wrote a letter to the Under-secretary of State in charge of the Colonies asking for the official authorization to introduce Japanese workers in Guadeloupe9. In this letter, he explains that “in order to obviate the lack of [working] hands, which is the main obstacle to the development of agricultural and industrial establishments in Guadeloupe, [they] have, together with some of the colony's most prominent owners and sugar makers, looked into the conditions to which it would be possible to undertake an operation of emigration for Japanese workers 10 ”. The negotiations concerning this introduction of Japanese labourers were to be conducted by a former French diplomat, François Lutscher, who had already been in charge of the negotiations between the Nippon Kissa Imingaisha and “la Société le Nickel” for New Caledonia. Then, in July 1894, an agreement was signed in Yokohama between the two parties, concerning the introduction of 500 Japanese male labourers, chosen amongst farmers from 22 to 33 years old, to Guadeloupe.

2. Important facts and new discoveries about the Japanese migrants in Guadeloupe These labourers were to go to Guadeloupe on a five-year contract, thus running from the end of 1894 to the end of 1899, and to be employed by the CFC on designated sugar cane plantations and/or sugar producing facilities on the island. The amount of work was ten hours per day, from Monday to Saturday, with the possibility of paid overtime work, for a monthly salary of 35 francs (i.e. 10 to 13 yens11). Housing (with a Japanese style bath), food and medical care were to be provided by the employer, as well as transportation to and from the colony

8 ANOM, Guadeloupe 59-409, August 27, 1892: « […] j’ai pensé qu’il était intéressant de vous signaler cette source de recrutement qui pourrait peut-être fournir à la G… les mains d’œuvre dont elle a besoin. » 9 For more specific information about the reasons why the CFC had to ask for the Government’s official authorization to introduce Japanese workers in Guadeloupe, and about the negotiations undertaken thereafter, see Le Roux, B., 2016「フランス領グアドループ島と日本人について―実証的研究を目指して」. 10 ANOM, Guadeloupe 59-409, February 5, 1894: « Dans le but d’obvier au manque de bras qui est le principal obstacle au développement des exploitations agricoles et industrielles à la Guadeloupe, nous avons, de concert avec un groupe des principaux propriétaires et fabricants de sucre de la Colonie, étudié les conditions dans lesquelles il serait possible d’entreprendre une opération d’émigration de travailleurs japonais. » 11 At the time, a Japanese farmer on daily employment received 3.1 yens per month, a carpenter in Tokyo 10 yens, and the first salary of an elementary school teacher was 8 yens per month.

117 at the end of the contract12. These were rather good conditions for the time, summarized in the above article from The Louisiana Planter and Sugar Manufacturer as “an ample supply of tea, warm baths, ample repasts and seductive salaries”, but they were in fact very similar to other emigrant contracts to other places such as Hawaii, the Fiji Islands or New Caledonia. Then, above all, these “seductive” working conditions seem to have not been enough to prevent the Japanese migrants to undertake labour movements soon after their arrival in the French colony – movements whose background we are going to analyse in the next chapter. Nor were they attractive enough to prevent quite a number of the Japanese labourers to head back to Japan before the end of their five-year contract, for reasons that we will also explain in the next chapter as well. However, let us state here that, contrary to what has been written or said in France until now, some Japanese workers did stay in Guadeloupe until at least the end of their contract, in 1899, a fact that has been known in Japan thanks to previous research for more than 30 years, and that we could also prove from the official registers of births, marriages and deaths (“Registres d’état-civil”) of Guadeloupe. As a matter of fact, we discovered that 3 Japanese died on the island in 1899, 4 in 1898 and 6 in 1897, for a total of 59 deaths between 1895 and 1900 (it seems that no Japanese migrant died that year, the last one we checked, in Guadeloupe)13. But the gap between both countries’ state of research is still quite deep, despite the existence of an important quantity of archives, many still unveiled, on both sides. A good proof of this gap has been shown in a recent conference held on November 6, 2015, at the “Memorial ACTe” (Caribbean Centre of Expression and Memory of Slavery & the Slave Trade) in Guadeloupe. The speaker, Raymond BOUTIN, member of both the Historical Society of Guadeloupe and the Scientific Committee of the “Mémorial ACTe”, stated on that occasion that “these Japanese did not stay for a long time, they stayed one year overall, because their stay in Guadeloupe was rather hectic 14 ”. This conference seems to repeat the few information that have already been published in 2004 within the catalogue of the exhibition organised by the “Archives Départementales de la Guadeloupe” (ADG: Departmental Archives of Guadeloupe), where it is also stated that “on July 9, 1896, the Governor could announce that the last Japanese [workers] had left Guadeloupe15”. Nevertheless, this allegation completely disregards the historical

12 For an exemplary of a worker’s contract, see (Kodama, 1983: 18-20). 13 For the precise numbers, see charts 2 and 3 below. 14 « Ces Japonais ne sont pas restés très longtemps, ils sont restés une année en tout, parce que leur séjour a été quand même assez agité en Guadeloupe », “Guadeloupe 1ère” TV Channel News Programme, November 2015. Video accessible here (retrieved February 20, 2016): https://www.facebook.com/memorialacte/videos/855699481194716/. 15 « […] le 9 juillet 1896, le gouverneur peut annoncer que les derniers Japonais ont quitté la Guadeloupe. » We would like to thank here Mr Gérard LAFLEUR, member of the Historical Society of Guadeloupe, for this very precious document.

118 facts, the same way the number of deaths (178 deaths as of December 189516) and other numbers or dates shown in the same catalogue do (ADG, 2004). As a matter of fact, besides the numbers from the official registers of births, marriages and deaths that we have unveiled, both Japanese historians Ishikawa Tomonori and Kodama Masaaki, based on documents from Hiroshima Prefecture’s archives, state that 55 Japanese labourers from that prefecture only did stay in Guadeloupe until the end of their five-year contract, making it almost one third (29.4% exactly) of the migrants from Hiroshima17 (Ishikawa, 1983: 133; Kodama, 1983: 31). They eventually arrived in Kobe on board the Japanese ship Kawauchi-maru (河内丸) on March 13, 1900 (Meiji 33)18 (Ishikawa, 1983: 133). Even though the numbers for the other prefectures are not known yet, we can already assume that probably between 60 to 100 Japanese workers did stay in Guadeloupe until 1899, a handful having even perhaps been able or chosen to stay longer on the island, giving birth to a few “Nikkei” (日系, i.e. persons of Japanese ancestry) French, as it happened in New Caledonia. Indeed, we have already discovered that on February 4, 1897, “the Japanese immigrant Iomomatsu Awamura, 29 years old, farmer, residing in this municipality [of Petit-Canal]” came to the city hall and “showed a male child, born last January 27, at 3 pm, in one of the cabins of the Poyen plantation, located on this same municipality, of whom he recognizes being the father, and having had him from miss Doïns Marie Rose Laurence, 18 years and a half old, unemployed, residing in this municipality, and to whom child he has declared being willing to give the forenames Casimir André Julo19.” This “Iomomatsu Casimir André Julo20” can then be considered as the first “Nikkei” being born on Guadeloupian soil, although unfortunately he passed away only a few months later, on April 1421. However this birth may have been not the only one, leaving some space for some further research about Japanese migrants in Guadeloupe, as shown also by the gap still existing between Japanese and French state of research. Let us now try to analyse why quite a number of the Japanese labourers sent to Guadeloupe chose to head back to Japan before the end of their five-year contract, and why “a number of Japanese employed there have recently refused to work”, as stated in the above article from The Louisiana Planter and Sugar Manufacturer, two facts that are in fact strongly related.

IV. The background of the Japanese workers’ labour movement

16 « En décembre 1895, on compte déjà 178 morts. » 17 Kodama also states that 4 other migrants’ whereabouts are not known. 18 「［グアドループ］島への移民人名簿の帰国年月日記載事項をもとに，今少し詳細にみることにする。まず，満期帰国 55 人については，「明治 33 年 3 月 13 日河内丸ニテ神戸へ帰着」と記されている。」 19 ANOM, “Registers of Births, Marriages and Deaths”, Petit-Canal, February 4, 1897. 20 It is hard to decide for the moment, without any more precise information, which one is the father’s family name, “Awamura” or “Iomomatsu”, although in the French registers it is stated as “Iomomatsu”. 21 ANOM, “Registers of births, marriages and deaths”, Petit-Canal.

119

1. Lafcadio Hearn’s prophecy Curiously, a rather prophetic vision regarding the situation of Japanese labourers in Guadeloupe can be found in an article published on November 2, 1894, in the Kobe Chronicle, an English-written newspaper founded in 1891 in Kobe, and written by the famous Anglo-Japanese author Lafcadio Hearn (later naturalized Japanese under the name Koizumi Yakumo, 小泉八雲, 1850-1904)22. In this article, published only two weeks after the Japanese migrants left Kobe for Guadeloupe, Hearn, who had previously lived for two years in Martinique, Guadeloupe’s “sister colony”, warns “upon [his] own personal knowledge of the French West Indies”, that “the conditions there [in Guadeloupe] are totally unsuited to Japanese emigration”, and that he “believe[s] the experiment to be an unconscious cruelty”. In his opinion, “there are two great reasons why Japanese labour cannot […] succeed in the French West Indies; – the First reason is based upon the climatic conditions and the environment; – the second upon the social conditions” (Hearn, 1960:69). Let us examine Hearn’s statement and cross it with actual facts.

2. Japanese labourers’ deaths Concerning the first reason why Japanese emigration cannot work in Guadeloupe, that is to say “the climatic conditions and the environment”, there is no choice but to acknowledge Hearn’s prophetic vision. As a matter of fact, soon after their arrival on the island, many migrants got sick, and many died quite rapidly, mainly because of the climate, not really suited for Japanese coming from a rather temperate country. In an article published on January 20, 1895, only one month after the arrival of the Japanese in Guadeloupe, in La Vérité, a progressive weekly newspaper opposed to the rich planters of the colony, we can read that the Japanese workers “die like flies since they arrived. Six were already buried, one of which having hung himself, his umbrella in his hand”. As a consequence of this rather unpleasant situation, “some of them went to work, but the majority seems recalcitrant 23 ” and already wishes to go back to Japan, which can be understandable. Then, a few months later, on September 22, 1895, another article in La Vérité states that “since they arrived, 58 [Japanese] already went to the valley of Josaphat [i.e. the biblical place of the Last Judgment] wait for their fellow countrymen. Another 30 or so are about to leave [for death] in the hospitals24”. It really looks like a true epidemic.

22 We would like to thank again here Mr Greg ROBINSON, professor at UQAM, for this very precious information. 23 « Ils crèvent comme des mouches depuis leur arrivée. On en a enterré six dont un qui s’était pendu, son parapluie à la main. / Quelques uns ont pris le travail, mais le plus grand nombre semble réfractaire. / Ils se proposent, dit-on, de gagner aussitôt qu’ils le pourront les colonies anglaises voisines pour, de là, se faire réexporter. » 24 « Depuis leur arrivée, 58 sont déjà allés dans la vallée de Josaphat attendre leurs compatriotes. Une trentaine est en partance dans les hospices. »

120 However, as far as the statistics are concerned, 58 dead Japanese as soon as September 1895 seem to be rather exaggerated; but still less exaggerated than the “178 deaths as of December 1895” published in the ADG catalogue of 2004 that we mentioned above. As a matter of fact, Kodama, who analysed first-hand sources from the representative of the Nippon Kissa Imingaisha in Hiroshima Prefecture, states that by September 1895, the number of Japanese deaths had reached 40: 22 men from Hiroshima Prefecture, 6 from Wakayama Prefecture, 10 from Yamaguchi Prefecture, and 1 from Niigata Prefecture and Gifu Prefecture each25 (Kodama, 1983: 31). On the other hand, our own, previously unreleased research within the registers of births, marriages and deaths of Guadeloupe let us acknowledge 38 deaths amongst Japanese labourers until the end of 1895, and 32 as of September 1895, as shown in charts 2 and 3 below. These figures are probably to be completed by further research within the local archives of Guadeloupe, to obtain more precise numbers. Nevertheless, we can corroborate the first article of La Vérité, and it seems true that, as of the end of January 1895, “six [Japanese] were already buried26”. Moreover, amongst these six men, three died at the Hôtel-Dieu, the main hospital of the island in Pointe-à-Pitre, where at least 21 Japanese died from 1895 to 1899, representing 87.5% of all the deaths in Pointe-à-Pitre (24 men), and even 35.6% of all the Japanese deaths (59 men) we could list up from the official registers.

Number of deaths amongst Japanese Chart 2 Chart 3 Number of deaths amongst Japanese migrant workers migrant workers in Guadeloupe Total in Guadeloupe 6 deaths for Jan - Mar 12 January only Municipality 1895 1896 1897 1898 1899 1900 Total Apr - June 4 1895 38 Le Moule 2 2 2 1 0 0 7 July - Sep 16

Oct - Dec 6 Petit-Canal 9 1 1 1 2 0 14 Jan - Mar 1 Pointe-à-Pitre 16 3 2 2 1 0 24 Apr - June 2 1896 8 Port-Louis 1 0 0 0 0 0 1 July - Sep 2

Oct - Dec 3 Saint-François 10 2 1 0 0 0 13 Jan - Mar 1 Total 38 8 6 4 3 0 59 Apr - June 3 1897 6 Sources: ANOM (Archives Nationales d’Outre-Mer), “État civil de la July - Sep 2 Guadeloupe” (Registers of births, marriages and deaths) Oct - Dec 0 Note：The death that occurred in Petit-Canal in 1897 is that of the Jan - Mar 3 son of a Japanese worker and a local woman, born only a few months

Apr - June 0 earlier, and who is up to now the only example of a “nikkei” (日系, 1898 4 person of Japanese ancestry) in Guadeloupe. July - Sep 0

Oct - Dec 1

Jan - Mar 1

Apr - June 1 1899 3 July - Sep 0 Oct - Dec 1 Total 59 25 Ishikawa reaches the same numbers, but considers them as of December 1895 (Ishikawa, 1983: 134). 26 Amongst these six January 1895 deaths that we could list up, one took place on January 26 in Petit-Canal, after the article of La Vérité was published, thus there may have been another death that was not recorded in the official registers.

121 To put it in a nutshell, it does not seem to be a mistake to admit that too many Japanese men, either it be 7.75% (38 deaths amongst 490 men), 8.2% (40 deaths) or 11.8% (58 deaths) depending on the statistics we choose, died very soon after their arrival in Guadeloupe, more precisely during the first year, mainly because of an unfit climate and environment that resulted in several diseases, as Hearn had predicted, and as shown in the number of deaths that happened at the Hôtel- Dieu. According to Kodama, who could analyse only the numbers for Hiroshima Prefecture, 35 workers from that prefecture died in Guadeloupe between 1895 and 1899 and four others during their return voyage to Japan, seemingly all of several diseases. 39 deaths amongst 187 migrants from Hiroshima Prefecture, this means that 20.9% of these men died from one or another disease contracted during their stay in Guadeloupe. Most of the men who died on the island contracted some kinds of fever, probably malaria or other forms of tropical fevers (12 men, 34.3%), other some lung diseases or typhoid fever (3 each, 8.6%) and one, dysentery (2.9%) (Kodama, 1983: 31-3227). As a consequence, given these environmental conditions, it is not disturbing to think that amongst these workers, “the majority seem[ed] recalcitrant” and thus was refusing to work. But let us not forget that Lafcadio Hearn had foreseen that “the climatic conditions and the environment” would not be the only reason “why Japanese labour cannot […] succeed in the French West Indies”: now we must look into the second reason, “the social conditions”.

3. The opposition to Japanese immigration in Guadeloupe First, we must remember that Hearn noted in his article that “the necessity for labour in the West Indies and the Guianas is not due to scarcity of hands at all” (Hearn, 1960: 72), a viewpoint that the progressive newspaper La Vérité seems to share. In a long article published on October 21, 1894, then before the arrival of the Japanese workers in Guadeloupe, the author strongly criticizes the immigration system, led by what is pejoratively called “l’Usine” (“the Factory”, i.e. the class formed by the rich capitalist sugar cane plantations or factories owners), which transforms Indian or Japanese workers into mere merchandises, “as beans are a grocery product”. This system is thus “the cause of all the suffering of the pauper class”, one of the main reasons being, as Hearn had well analysed, that in Guadeloupe “there is already too much labour to sow and harvest”. As a consequence, the introduction of new labourers from other countries creates “a new competition for those Creoles possessing nothing” and already “being weighed down by taxes”, it causes the salaries of the local workers to drop, and it “forces the three quarters of [the] population to be constantly out of work”. To put it in a nutshell, the immigration is a real “blight”, and can even be seen as a

27 It is also interesting to note that Kodama states that the cause of death is unknown for 14 of these men, rising some doubts about them all being dead from one or another disease:「現地死亡三五人の病名は、熱病が一二人（34.3％）で一番多く、ついで肺病三人、腸チフス三人、赤痢一人だが、不明（名簿に未記載）が一四人ある。」 One can moreover remark that the total of these numbers does not reach the number of dead workers (12+3+3+1+14=33, not 35).

122 “disguised slavery”, thus it has to be “once and for all abolished28” from the colony. This line of argument is repeated and even developed in another article published on November 18, in which the author claims to demonstrate that the cost for a day of labour would be three francs for a Japanese immigrant, whereas the local workers are offered only one franc for the same work. The introduction of foreign labourers is again viewed as a “disastrous competition 29 ”, with terrible consequences on the local labour market. Again the following week, another article hammers into the readers’ mind the fact that “there is within Guadeloupe’s Usiniers, whose association the Crédit Foncier could not resist to worm its way in, a will to starve the workers, to ruin Guadeloupe”. A proof of that “conspiracy” is that one of the leaders of the “Usiniers”, Ernest Souques (1831-1908), had said in 1889 that “the consequences of the abolition of the Immigration would be an increase in salaries that would be the ruin for all30”, “all” being of course the rich capitalist planters, not the small local labourers. It is then clear from the several examples given above that a rather strong opposition to the Japanese immigrants existed within the island even before their arrival. Nevertheless, we must not forget that La Vérité is a progressive newspaper, whose editorial line is close to the socialist ideology, and that it can obviously be viewed as biased. However, we cannot suspect the Governor of the colony to suffer from the same kind of bias, and here is what he wrote on a letter to the French Ministry of Colonies on July 17, 1895:

“The local population had been put in a frenzied state of mind against this [Japanese] immigration by the socialist party. Some had even considered attacking the newcomers when they would set foot on land. We could avoid the conflict by quarantining them. At first, there were some prejudices of malice, and also a kind of superstitious fear, from the Creole workers, against these aliens. Under the influence of these feelings, some complaints have been filled against two of them, who had been accused of wanting to unscrew the head of some Creole workers. Now the situation is calm, and the Japanese workers are not considered in a different manner from the Indians workers31.”

28 La Vérité, October 21, 1894. 29 La Vérité, November 18, 1894. 30 La Vérité, November 25, 1894. 31 ANOM, Guadeloupe 59-409, July 17, 1895: « La population indigène avait été excitée contre cette immigration par le parti socialiste. Il avait même été question d’assaillir les arrivants au débarquement./ On a pu éviter le conflit en les mettant en quarantaine./ Il y a eu d’abord contre ces étrangers, de la part des ouvriers Créoles, des préjugés de malveillance et aussi une sorte de crainte superstitieuse./ Sous l’empire de ces sentiments, des plaintes ont été portées contre deux d’entre eux, qu’on accusait d’avoir voulu dévisser la tête d’ouvriers Créoles./ Aujourd'hui le calme s’est fait, et les travailleurs du Japon ne sont pas autrement considérés que ceux de l’Inde. »

123

This complex situation, in which local workers seem excited against new immigrants that they, on the other hand, seem to fear a little as well, led to some rather violent conflicts, as Hearn had also predicted when he wrote that the Japanese emigrants would “have to be ready to protect themselves if necessary against the violence of native blacks – far superior to them physically, but scarcely less savage than their African fore-fathers. […]”(Hearn, 1960: 74).

4. Conflicts between Creole and Japanese workers Then, as a result of the tense situation described above, Japanese workers seem to have suffered from physical violence on the part of local Creoles, an aspect of the problem that has not been mentioned at all in the few French research about Japanese immigration in Guadeloupe, whereas it is quite well documented in Japanese historiography, even though more sources have yet to be unveiled. For instance, we can find in the archives of the Japanese Ministry of Foreign Affairs a previously unpublished letter dated from September 21, 1895, written by Oki Moritaka (沖守固, 1841-1912), Governor of Wakayama Prefecture, and addressed to the Minister of Foreign Affairs Mutsu Munemitsu (陸奥宗光, 1844-1897), explaining the situation his fellow countrymen were facing in the French colony. In this letter, we learn that a few dozens people from Wakayama Prefecture, whose relatives have been sent to Guadeloupe after having signed a contract with the Nippon Kissa Imingaisha, have asked the Governor of Wakayama Prefecture to carry out diligently an investigation about the situation Japanese workers were facing in the French colony, because some of them were apparently “violently assaulted by Frenchmen” (「仏蘭西人ノ為メ非常ノ暴行ヲ受ケ困難致居候」): “as soon as they see Japanese, they face them with sticks or iron bars, or they set their houses on fire; one Japanese has already been killed by those men and four or five others have been seriously wounded” (「同島ニ於テ仏蘭西人ノ為メ非常ノ暴行ヲ受ケ，日本人ト見レハ忽チステッキ又ハ鉄棒ヲ以テ手向ヒヲ為シ，又住居ママヘ火ヲ放チナト， ,限已ニ一名ノ本邦人ハ彼等ノ為メニ虐殺セラレ，他四五名モ重傷ヲ負ハセラレクル等」)32. The same kind of rough treatments are also described by migrants from Hiroshima Prefecture, as shown in an “inquiry letter” (「照会書」), also dated from September 1895, but written this time by migrants’ relatives directly to the Nippon Kissa Imingaisha in order to obtain explanations concerning the situation of the Japanese workers. In this letter we learn that this time “two persons from Wakayama Prefecture are dead” and “seven or eight others are seriously wounded” because of events that occurred around 7 pm on July 5, 1895, in Pointe-à-Pitre, when “natives started a riot, set houses on fire, killed cows and

32 外交資料館所蔵，外務省記録 3 門（通商）8 類（帝国臣民移動）2 項（移民）51 号（「仏領西印度「グワトルーフプ」へ本邦人出稼（砂糖耕作）一件」）.

124 horses, and violently assaulted Japanese migrants” (Kodama, 1983: 40-41). It is hard to say whether the two letters describe the same events, but what we can undoubtedly say is that the dates more or less coincide, allowing us to state that violent conflicts between Creole and Japanese workers took place during the summer of 1895, the first summer the Japanese spent on the colony. This statement can be backed up by other sources, such as an article from La Vérité dated July 14, 1895. However, in this article, it is this time the Japanese that “commit disorders within the estates” and “desert their work in great numbers”, thus forcing the “gendarmerie” (i.e. the police) to put them back to work or even to put them in jail in Pointe-à-Pitre “in groups of 25 and 30”. But the author of the article does not really blame these labourers and rather considers them as collateral victims of the economical crisis33. Again, La Vérité having been against the Japanese immigration, its information may be biased and tend to present the situation in an unfavourable manner concerning the “disorders” started by the migrant workers. However, the Governor of the colony, senior civil servant named by the Government and rather close to the upper classes, can hardly be suspected of socialist thoughts, or of defending the labourers against the rich plantations owners, as most of his political and economical decisions can show. But in this particular case, he states in a letter to the French Minister of Colonies dated October 10, 1895, that “the Japanese immigrants introduced in the colony in 1894 by the Société du Crédit foncier colonial kept on being the cause of constant disorders34”, thus putting into some perspective the violent assaults inflicted to the Japanese, even though it seems rather impossible to deny that they actually happened. Another problem with the Japanese migrants, which may be considered as a source for troubles, seems to have been their “lack of decent behaviour”, an easy criticism at a time when extra-European cultures were almost always judged as “non-civilized”. La Vérité, progressive in its defence of the oppressed, is not so progressive anymore when it comes to the defence of different cultures or behaviours, especially when these belong to immigrants that are about to force local labourers out of their jobs. For instance, on October 21, 1894, as the newspaper still believes that the Japanese immigration, officially decided a few months earlier, will not happen, it argues that one of the reasons why the colony should not accept this new arrival is that “there is no dress or customs as indecent as that of the immigrant”, who is definitely going to “corrupt public morals35” on

33 La Vérité, July 14, 1895: « Les Japonais commettent depuis quelques jours des désordres sur les propriétés. Ils désertent en masse le travail. C’est par bande de 25 et 30 que la Gendarmerie les réintègre ou les conduit à la Prison de la Pointe-à-Pitre. Ce sont les accessoires de la crise. » 34 ANOM, Guadeloupe 59-409, October 10, 1895: « […] les immigrants japonais introduits en 1894 dans la colonie par la société du Crédit foncier colonial n’avaient cessé d’être une cause de désordres constants. » 35 La Vérité, October 21, 1894: « D’autre part, y a-t-il un costume et des mœurs aussi indécents que ceux de l’immigrant ? Ici nous laissons la réponse à l’appréciation de nos charmants lecteurs, lesquels ne doivent pas dédaigner avec moins de courroux que nous les attentats aux bonnes mœurs. »

125 the island. As a matter of fact, a few months later, “these Japanese allow themselves to get naked in the middle of the street and to wave indecent signals to women they see36”, such a lack of morals being of course unforgivable. As a consequence, we may guess that, contrary to what the letters from labourers’ relatives shown in previous Japanese research let us think, the Japanese migrants themselves may also have caused conflicts against the local Creoles, that they may have provoked some of them by their culturally-biased behaviours as well. It is however indubitable that the Japanese in Guadeloupe were facing a delicate situation: not only was the climate not really suitable for them, but also the local population was somehow driven into frenzy against them. But is this situation enough to explain the labour movements that occurred soon after the Japanese arrived in the French colony?

5. Japanese labourers’ contracts and working conditions If we go back to Hearn’s editorial, there is again one important point that is worth considering. As he writes, “Indian coolies cannot be sure in the French West Indies of the protection and justice they are certain to have in the English colonies. And the reason is that the social conditions in the French West Indies are extremely unfavourable to immigration of any kind. Contracts were broken and great injustice shown in the case of the Hindoo [sic] coolies sent to Martinique […]” (Hearn, 1960: 72-73). Martinique is of course not Guadeloupe, but both French colonies share the same geographical environment, both islands’ economies depend on cane sugar, and their socio-political configurations are also rather similar, with a high proportion of labourers of slave ancestry, almost obliged to sell their working force to rich plantation owners (the “Usiniers”). How about then the “ample supply of tea, warm baths, ample repasts and seductive salaries” guaranteed in the Japanese labourers’ contract, that The Louisiana Planter and Sugar Manufacturer writes about37? Were these contracts also broken and “great injustice shown” in the case of the Japanese in Guadeloupe as well? First of all, let us quote here the article 7 of the contract signed in July 1894 in Tokyo between the Yoshi-Sa-Imin-Gomei-Kaisha 38 and the CFC, represented by François Lutscher, in which are detailed the “seductive” conditions to which the

36 La Vérité, September 22, 1895: « Ces Japonais se permettent en pleine rue de se mettre nus et de faire des signes indécents aux femmes qu’ils aperçoivent. » 37 Let us notice here that the Louisianan newspaper seems to quote an article from La Vérité dated from September 22, 1895, in which we can read: « Les japonais, décidément, ne se soucient guère des avantages que leur ont proposés nos marchands de sucre. / Malgré le thé et les bains tièdes, les copieux repas et le séduisant salaire qu’on leur offre, ils ne rêvent que leur retour dans l’empire du soleil levant et préfèrent, paraît-il, la culture du daikon à celle de la canne, les ingrats ! » (Underlined by the author.) 38 “Yoshi Sa” is the other possible reading for the two characters “吉佐” in the name of the immigration company, but in Japanese sources such as newspapers of the time, the reading “Kissa” is the only one that we could see until now.

126 Japanese labourers were to be sent to Guadeloupe, and that we have only briefly mentioned above.

« Art.7. – Pendant toute la durée de leur contrat, les émigrants auront droit à : 1° Un salaire en espèce de trente cinq francs (fr. 35) par mois ; 2° Au logement et à des bains suivant l’usage japonais ; 3° Deux vêtements par an, comprenant chacun une blouse, un pantalon, un chapeau de paille, plus une couverture, et si les besoins du climat l’exigent, un caoutchou [sic] ; 4° La nourriture, qui comprendra trois repas : un le matin, avant d’aller au travail ; un au milieu de la journée et un le soir ; la ration journalière sera de : Riz décortiqué 850 grammes Poisson séché ou salé 110 id. Poisson frais ou viande39 150 id. Thé 15 id. plus les condiments nécessaires à l’assaisonnement. Cette ration ne sera obligatoire que les six premiers mois, ensuite elle pourra, après entente avec le chef inspecteur japonais, être assimilée à celle en usage dans le pays ; au combustible et à l’eau nécessaire [sic] à la cuisson et à la préparation des aliments ; aux soins du médecin gratuits et aux médicaments gratuits, en cas de maladie40. »

This article 7 is divided in 4 paragraphs, each concerning a specific domain, and it is clearly specified at the beginning of the article that the migrants will benefit from these conditions “for the whole length of their contract”. The first part deals with the salary, which is to be of 35 francs per month (approximately 10 to 13 yens), and which is to be paid in cash, although the article 9 states that “a part of the monthly salary will have to be paid in Japan” and that “the remittance will be made every three months to the Yoshi-Sa Imin-Gomei-Kaisha, through the good offices of the CFC41”. The second paragraph guarantees to the labourers an accommodation and, very important detail, “baths according to the Japanese custom”, for that it is a fundamental aspect of Japanese culture. The third paragraph presents the two sets of clothes that are to be given to the labourers every year they spend in the colony. The fourth and last paragraph is the longest and deals in detail with the meals (three per day), the daily food ration (with rice and tea), as well as medical care and medicines, from which the Japanese migrants will also benefit for free. There is also another important point

39 In the Japanese version of the contract, we can read “Fish or beef (without bones) 150 g”: 「魚肉又は牛肉（骨ナシ）百五十「グラム」」. Then, before the tea, we can read “Vegetables 50 g”: 「野菜五十「グラム」」 (Kodama, 1983: 19). 40 La Vérité, November 4, 1894. 41 Ibid: « Art. 9. – Une partie du salaire mensuel devra être payé [sic] au Japon ; l’envoi en aura lieu chaque trimestre à la Yoski-Sa-Imin-Gomei-Kaiska, par les soins de la Société le Crédit Foncier Colonial, sous déduction de un pour cent 1% pour le courrier et frais de transmission. »

127 mentioned here: “this daily food ration will only be compulsory for the first six months, then it can be, upon agreement with the Japanese head supervisor, changed to the food ration in use in the country42”. What happened then with this “seductive” working and living conditions? In the archives of the Japanese Ministry of Foreign Affairs, we could find a previously unpublished letter dated from September 19, 1895, written by Fujii Saburō (藤井三郎), Head of the Bureau of Commercial Affairs in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and addressed to the director of the Nippon Kissa Imin Gaisha Sakuma Tei-ichi (佐久間貞一), in which he gives a rather frank account of the situation the Japanese migrants seem to be facing in Guadeloupe. What is at stake here is that, as we already stated before, “almost 40 Japanese workers are already dead” and “approximately 200 are sick, because of tropical diseases” due to “the climate [which] does not fit the migrants”. But what seems even more problematic here in the eyes of the Head of the Bureau of Commercial Affairs is that, even though the situation is dreadful, and even though the contract stipulates in its article 7 that the Japanese labourers will have access “to free medical care and to free medicines in case they get ill”, the employers do not seem to provide the necessary medical care and seem to refuse that the Japanese can see a doctor (「療養上手当宜シカラスシテ医師ノ診察モ□□ニ受クル能ハス」), which constitutes an obvious violation of the contract. Moreover, it seems also that “concerning food supply as well as working hours, there have been contradictions with the original contract” (「食物ノ供給労働時間ノ如キモ当初ノ契約ト齟齬セシニヨリ」), not yet resolved despite the intervention of one or more Japanese supervisors43. Even more interesting is perhaps the letter that Arai Daijirō (荒井第二郎), one of the Japanese overseers present in Guadeloupe, sent to the “Society of Emigration” (殖民協会 44 ), in the sense that this report about the situation concerning the migrants was written a few weeks only after their arrival, on March 7, 1895. According to this letter, it seems that since the beginning, some “Usiniers” chose to not respect the terms of the contract, as a “Mr Poyer45” (「耕主ポーウエー氏」) that gave to some Japanese labourers from Yamaguchi Prefecture only a poor accommodation, and, “in the beginning, for more than a month, he gave them no beef and no fish, and it was only in the first week of last month (February 1895) that he furnished them both beef and fish, but only once a

42 The Japanese version of the contract reads:「最初六ヶ月間ハ必ラズ此食料ヲ供給スヘキモノナリト雖モ右期限後日本総監督ノ認諾ヲ得テ居住地方ニ於テ用ユル食料ト一様ナラシムルコトヲ得ルモノトス」(Kodama, 1983: 19]. 43 外交資料館所蔵，外務省記録 3 門（通商）8 類（帝国臣民移動）2 項（移民）51 号（「仏領西印度「グワトルーフプ」へ本邦人出稼（砂糖耕作）一件」）. 44 The goal of this society, founded in 1893 after an appeal from the former Minister of Foreign Affairs Enomoto Takeaki, was mainly to promote migration abroad for Japanese workers and the development of international trade for Japanese merchants. 45 The name is not yet certain. It may well be “Poyen”, name of a plantation in Petit-Canal where some Japanese were actually working.

128 week” (Kodama, 1983: 28-29). In these conditions, on top of the climate, the diseases and the opposition from a part of the local population, we can probably understand why many Japanese workers decided to refuse to work, and even to start a large scale labour movement, that can be considered as a real strike.

V. Conclusion To begin with, let us first state here that Lafcadio Hearn’s prediction, written just at the period when the Japanese labourers left Kobe for Guadeloupe, proved to be for a large part true. Based on his own experience of living for a few years in Martinique, Guadeloupe’s “sister colony”, Hearn had quite well analysed the colonial society of the time, notwithstanding some astonishingly racist remarks towards the local population of the islands” (Hearn, 1960: 72). His warning that “the conditions there [in Guadeloupe] are totally unsuited to Japanese emigration”, because of “the climatic conditions and the environment” and of “the social conditions”, turned out to reflect what happened in reality, as we could illustrate using documents from different sources. However, Hearn’s analyses of these social conditions appear to be rather biased: he seems to have taken a stand for the rich plantation and factory owners, the class of the “Usiniers”, against the “emancipated negroes” and the Republic that protected them. For him, if “the social conditions there [in Guadeloupe] are not of a character to ensure their [the Japanese labourers] being justly treated”, it is “not the fault of the planters themselves”, but “of the Republic in not providing special legislation and a special form of government for colonies of which the population is mostly savage”. As “the legislative power in the French colonies is practically in the hands of the blacks”, “the emancipated negroes use their power to crush their former masters”, and “black legislators determined there should be no competition between their lazy constituents and Indian labourers [in Martinique], and they decreed in the teeth of the white planters that the coolies should be shipped to India again”. Hearn thought that the situation in Guadeloupe would be the same as in Martinique, but we can see here that he obviously thinks of the colonial society in terms of race and not of class, thus ignoring the importance of the labour movements that just started to emerge in the Caribbean colonies at the time. Moreover, as many articles from La Vérité show, the legislative power in Guadeloupe, represented by the “Conseil Général”, was far to be “in the hands of the blacks”. The advocates of the “Usine”, that was “boasting its omnipotence within the Conseil Général 46”, formed a majority, qualified by the newspaper as “the reactionary majority47”, and its members, whatever their “race” or “colour”, were in fact more numerous in that institution. It is for this reason that the efforts made to maintain the immigration towards the

46 La Vérité, November 25, 1894: « Aujourd'hui, fort[e] de sa toute puissance au Conseil général, […] l’Usine n’aura même pas pris la peine de s’adresser à l’Administration centrale ? » 47 La Vérité, February 4, 1894: « Telles sont les conséquences malheureuses de cette odieuse institution [l’immigration] que hier encore maintenait la majorité réactionnaire du conseil général […]. »

129 colony, and to replace the Indians coolies with Japanese labourers, were crowned with success, notwithstanding the strong opposition to the immigration system. The key for analysing the labour movement launched by the Japanese migrants in Guadeloupe in 1895, perhaps the first large scale strike in the colony, lies then for us more in the social unrest that was electrifying Guadeloupe at the time, poor labourers being crushed by an economic and social system that had stayed in reality almost untransformed since the abolition of slavery in 1848. Perhaps the “Usiniers” had underestimated the reactivity of the Japanese workers and thought that they would behave in a “civilized” way and not complain too much? It would be then interesting to go back in time and to look furthermore into labour movements launched by other migrants in Guadeloupe or in Martinique (were the Indian coolies more apathetic in front of their employers?), as well as to compare these movements with others that happened in other geographical areas, such as in New Caledonia, in Hawaii or in Queensland at the same period.

REFERENCES: Hearn, Lafcadio, Editorials from the Kobe Chronicle (edited with notes by Makoto Sangu), Hokuseido, 1960. Ishikawa, Tomonori. 1983 西インド仏領ガードループ島における日本人契約移民（1894～1900）について－広島県出身移民を例として－」 [About the Japanese Contract Migrants in Guadeloupe Island, French Territory in the West Indies (1894-1900) – The Case of the Migrants from Hiroshima], 『移住研究』, No.20, p.113-137. Kodama, Masaaki. 1983 「グアドループ島への日本人契約移民―広島県移民を中心に―」 [The Japanese Contract Migrants to Guadeloupe Island – Analysis Centred on Migrants from Hiroshima Prefecture]，『広島県史研究』, N°8, 広島県総務部県史編さん室 p.3-42. Le Roux, Brendan, 2016. 「フランス領グアドループ島と日本人について―実証的研究を目指して」 [“French Guadeloupe and Japanese”], in. 荒武賢一朗（編）『世界とつなぐ起点としての日本列島史』, 清文堂出版 Niort, Jean-François, « Les vicissitudes d'une assemblée coloniale: un bref survol de l’évolution institutionnelle du Conseil général au XIXe siècle » [The Vicissitudes of a Colonial Assembly: A Brief Synopsis of the Institutional Evolution of the Conseil Général During the 19th Century”], in Destouches, Didier ed., L’administration du territoire en Guadeloupe depuis le XVIIIe siècle, L'Harmattan, 2012. Schmidt, Nelly, « Les paradoxes du développement industriel des colonies françaises des Caraïbes pendant la seconde moitié du XIXe siècle – Perspectives comparatives » [The Paradoxes of French Colonies’ Industrial Development in the Caribbean During the Second Half of the 19th Century – Comparative Perspectives], Histoire, économie et société, Vol.8, 1989, pp.313-333.

130 Schnakenbourg, Christian. Histoire de l’industrie sucrière en Guadeloupe aux XIXe et XXe siècles [History of the Sugar Industry in Guadeloupe in the 19th and 20th Centuries], T. II et III, L’Harmattan, 2007-2008. Service éducatif des Archives départementales de la Guadeloupe (ADG), « Les immigrations en Guadeloupe au XIXe » [Immigrations in Guadeloupe in the 19th century], dossier pédagogique établi par Gérard LAFLEUR, 2004.

Sources: Archives Nationales d’Outre-Mer (ANOM), État Civil [National Overseas Archives, Registers of Births, Marriages and Deaths], http://anom.archivesnationales.culture.gouv.fr/caomec2/. ANOM, Série Géographique Guadeloupe, Carton 59, Dossier 409, « Essai fâcheux d'immigration japonaise » (Unfortunate Trial of Japanese Immigration). 仏領西印度「グワトルーフプ」へ本邦人出稼（砂糖耕作）一件」[Japanese Migrants Workers (Cane Sugar) in Guadeloupe, French Territory in the West Indies], 外務省記録 3 門（通商）8 類（帝国臣民移動）2 項（移民）51 号（明治 28 年(1895)）, 外交資料館所蔵. Journal Officiel de la Guadeloupe (Guadeloupe Official Gazette). La Vérité - Journal Républicain de la Guadeloupe [La Vérité – Republican Newspaper of Guadeloupe]. The Louisiana Planter and Sugar Manufacturer, New Orleans, LA.

131 JAPANESE APPROACHES TO THE CHALLENGES OF AGEING – LESSONS FOR ROMANIA

Diana TIHAN

Abstract: However geographically and culturally distant from Romania, Japan can offer valuable lessons on how to prevent the potential negative impact and maximize the benefits of the accelerating population ageing process, considering that it has been experiencing, studying and experimenting with this phenomenon for longer than Romania and other EU countries. In addition, present day Japan may be seen as a show-case model, a possible picture of what other countries, now at the beginning of the ageing process, such as Romania, could look like in the near future. Japan may thus provide Romania a good opportunity to gather data about the dynamics of the process and the impact of the measures designed to tackle it. Certainly, no two social environments are the same, and the Japanese experience cannot be reproduced anywhere else as such. But finding inspiration and adapting the Japanese good-practices to the unique particularities and challenges of the Romanian demographic process are feasible endeavors that may prove beneficial. This paper aims to identify possible solutions to the problem of ageing in Romania based on a comparative approach with Japan on this issue. Keywords: ageing, Romania, Japan

Introduction

With the highest proportion of older adults, and the most rapid pace of declining fertility in the world, Japan is at the forefront of a demographic dynamics that is due to emerge in an increasing number of countries in the years to come, namely population ageing. Extensively researched within a wide range of perspectives, from macroeconomics and psycho-sociology to bio-medicine and robotics, the issue of population ageing has been on top of the public and governmental agenda in Japan for more than twenty years, and under the current Abe administration has even gained unprecedented emphasis, lying at the center of the economic reform plan dubbed Abenomics. In Romania, population ageing has only recently come to the fore as a topic of debate in the public sphere. The perspective of the rapid expansion of older population in the following decades, up to one third of the total population by 2050, has compelled both academic researchers, and public policy planners to start taking the issue into account. At present, the Romanian approach to the challenges of ageing is yet to be defined in a comprehensive and systematic manner. So far, the European Union policies related to ageing have been the main

 PhD Candidate, University of Bucharest, Faculty of Sociology and Social Work

132 incentive and inspiration for drawing up a specifically Romanian approach to the issue, given the fact that Europe is itself a graying continent and most of the EU member states face similar challenges in this respect. Meanwhile, very little attention has been given to non-European experiences with population ageing. However geographically and culturally distant from Romania, Japan can offer valuable lessons on how to prevent the potential negative impact and maximize the benefits of the accelerating population ageing process, considering that it has been experiencing, studying and experimenting with this phenomenon for longer than Romania and other EU countries. In addition, present day Japan may be seen as a show-case model, a possible picture of what other countries, now at the beginning of the ageing process, such as Romania, could look like in the near future. Japan may thus provide Romania a good opportunity to gather data about the dynamics of the process and the impact of the measures designed to tackle it. Certainly, no two social environments are the same, and the Japanese experience cannot be reproduced anywhere else as such. But finding inspiration and adapting the Japanese good-practices to the unique particularities and challenges of the Romanian demographic process are feasible endeavors that may prove beneficial.

Deep Awareness of Ageing as an Issue of Critical Social Importance In Japan, ageing is widely perceived and discussed as a critical social issue of the present day, not only at the individual, personal level, but also at the public policies level, as well. Unlike in Romania and in most European countries, where ageing is still largely considered an issue to be happening in the future, in Japan there is an acute awareness of the process of ageing and population shrinking as a pressing issue unfolding in the present, with no small consequences for the future, and therefore demanding immediate action. Figures bespeak that population ageing in Japan is in many ways of a world record and a world first kind. In 1970, Japan passed the threshold of 7% of people aged 65+ in the total population, that qualify a society as “ageing”, and only 24 years later, in 1994, the percentage doubled to 14%, Japan officially becoming an “aged” society. For comparison, Romania reached the 14% threshold 8 years later, in 2002, and in 2010, the 65+ population represented 15% of the total population. Now, more than a quarter of the Japanese population is aged 65+, which represents the highest proportion in the world (25.9%, more than 30 million people, as of June 2014, Statistics Bureau of Japan). Of these, almost 25% are suffering from Alzheimer and related forms of dementia and 20% are living alone. Taking into account the rapidly falling birthrates, from a total fertility rate TFR of 4.5 in 1947 to 1.39 in 2010, and the highest life expectancy at birth in the world of 86 years for women and 80 for men (WHO, 2011), the estimates show that in 2030, 1 in every 3 people will be 65+ and 1 in 5 people will be 75+. Given the facts, ageing is a constant topic in the Japanese media, with the largest national newspapers Yomiuri Shimbun and Asahi Shimbun featuring at least one entry per day related to ageing, and the national television NHK covering the issue in extensive and frequent talk-shows, special programs, and TV series (e.g. Project 2030 – series 3 consisted in eight 20 minute daily installments

133 focused on population ageing, and was aired between May 21 and May 30, 2014). The wide plethora of commercial TV and radio stations, as well as newspapers and magazines, is following close suit with special reports and analyses dealing with ageing. Even school textbooks, and TV educational programs for children, include references to the demographic trends in Japan, ageing being depicted as one of the issues needing close attention and effective action. In almost every municipal or rural office in Japan there is a special department, often completed by local volunteers, in charge with supporting the elderly in their respective communities and with checking on the elderly living alone. Ageing is also a thoroughly monitored and investigated issue (Muramatsu& Akiyama, 2011). Statistics are meticulously collected on a systematic integrated basis on various aspects linked to the issue (social security and people’s lives, family, household changes, fertility, migration etc.), and the results of the periodical surveys are more often than not making the headlines in the Japanese media. Upon this background, it is therefore no surprise that the issue of population ageing and falling birthrates has gained mounting importance in the electoral debates over the past ten years, culminating with it becoming the core issue of the economic program of the current prime-minister Shinzo Abe. Even though both the previous Democratic Party government and the current Liberal Democratic administration have equally acknowledged the Japanese demographic dynamics to have a considerable impact on the country’s overall performance, under the current Abe government, population ageing is for the first time dealt with as an issue per se, a “very big challenge” to the Japanese economy, in Abe’s own words (The Economist, 2014). Abenomics is aimed at tackling the negative effects of population ageing and declining fertility on two fronts: on the one hand, by reforming the pension, medical and social security systems that are putting increased pressure on the spending capacities of an already deeply indebted country (almost two and a half times its annual GDP), and on the other hand, by making up for the shrinking workforce by means of encouraging immigrants, women and active elderly to enter or re-enter the labor market. Given the broad collateral consequences of Abe’s plan to diminish the negative economic impacts of ageing (for instance, the increase in the consumption tax - needed, among others, to support the government’s commitment to offer wide coverage on pension and medical and social services for the elderly) has generated a heated debate in the public sphere, with no few critics. The majority of the population is, however, highly supportive of Abenomics, as shown by the December 13 landslide victory of Abe’s party in the lower house of the Japanese Diet, which provides a fresh confidence vote on the current administration plans, including on those aimed to curb the adverse effects of ageing. With almost no exceptions, the predominant public perception on the issue of ageing has generally taken negative tones, focusing on the already obvious problems associated with rapid ageing and falling birthrates, such as the economic stagnation of the so-called “lost decades” from the 1990 to the present (Aoki, 2013), and generating stories of a gloomy future, which have further contributed to the narrative of a “malaise that haunts contemporary Japan”

134 (Kingston, 2014: 1). However, in recent years, the Japanese mindset regarding the issue of ageing has started to shift paradigms from that of a doomed predicament towards a more pro-active, solution oriented approach. The mission statement of The National Institute of Population and Social Security Research - the main institution in charge with research about ageing as a demographic trend in Japan, reads as follows: “Our mission is to conduct policy research on social security and population issues. Such research represents issues of critical importance and urgency not only to Japan but also to the world. […] Although falling birthrates and an aging population are not negative social phenomena per se, the public opinion appears to suggest that these phenomena in themselves are jeopardizing the future of Japan. Of course, the rise in pension, medical and nursing care expenses and the increased burden that accompany the aging society are unavoidable issues that must be addressed. However, we intend to promote research that seeks to solve these problems from a broader perspective.” (The National Institute of Population and Social Security Research, 2011)

Multidimensional, Integrated and Solution Oriented Approach on Ageing The Japanese perspective on the issue of demographic ageing in Japan is indeed broad. Not only is the subject researched from both theoretical and empirical points of view in a wide range of fields, but it is also analyzed in close connection to other aspects of the Japanese society, be it economy, finance, education, labor, medicine, immigration, gender issues, generational gap, innovation, climate change etc. Interdependence between ageing and other domains of the socio-economic system seems to be the dominant paradigm in Japan, and is based on extensive information sharing between various research and governmental institutions. Moreover, the macro-perspective is doubled by a micro-analysis, adapted to local communities, with their specific needs and particularities. Therefore, the solutions advanced to coping with the reality of a rapidly ageing population are of a comprehensive manner, with thorough estimates of the changes they may entail in other areas. The policy makers are presented with synthetic proposals in the form of multidimensional, integrated, solution- oriented reports that possess a high degree of applicability into practice, such as “Choices for the Future — Overcoming depopulation and a hyper-aged society to build a growth and development model originating from Japan” elaborated in 2014 by the Council on Economic and Fiscal Policy functioning under the Cabinet Office of the Prime Minister of Japan. The topics most commonly researched in connection to the ageing phenomenon in Japan refer to economy, pension, social security and health care costs, work productivity and labor market. Rapid ageing, coupled with a raising life expectancy, is already taking a high toll on the state budget, the public pension pillar needing increasing amounts of money. In order to achieve greater system sustainability, various reforms have been undertaken in the public and occupation pension pillars, like the automatic balancing mechanism for public pensions (of Swedish inspiration), and raising the age of eligibility for one of the

135 public pillars from 55 to 65 years old. Despite these measures, Japan’s Government Pension Investment Fund, the world largest pension fund, is still having trouble as the number of people paying into the fund is smaller than that of those receiving pensions. Additional measures such as diversifying the investment portfolio of the fund and the unpopular plan of increasing the consumption tax from the current 8% to 10% are also envisaged. The social security system is in a similar situation. The universal long- term care insurance policies have so far provided indiscriminate support to any person aged 65+, regardless of economic status, the Japanese taking great pride in their welfare system, strongly valued for its contribution to the high life expectancy rates. But rapid ageing has been putting the social security system under growing strain. The solutions taken into consideration, but yet to be implemented given the high political costs they imply are slashing social care funds, doubled by an increase from 10% to 20% of the individual contribution to the total cost of health care service. In addition, parts of the revenues collected from a prospected higher consumption tax are to be disbursed to the social security budget. The research regarding the Japanese health care system has so far focused on two major trends: the increasing long-term care costs associated with the specific diseases the elderly are prone to, and the work force shortages in this field. 6.3% of 70 to 74 year olds, 26.9% of 80 to 84 year olds and almost 70% of the Japanese aged 90+ need nursing care (Nikkei, 2014). The combined result of the longest life expectancy in the world with the rapidly increasing number of the elderly who are suffering from various ailments, especially cognitive impairments such as dementia, has led to long-term care facilities being over-burdened. The answer to this problem seems to be a composite of measures. On the one hand, promotion of an active, independent and healthy lifestyle and intensified research in fighting old age diseases like Alzheimer are deemed necessary in order to reduce the number of the elderly in need of long-term medical care. At the same time, developing innovative measures to make up for the lack of sufficient care workers are also considered essential. The available options range from governmental encouragement of foreign workers employment in the health care system to expanding the use of “nursing care robots” for the elderly on a large scale. However, both come along with certain risks or side effects. The foreign nurses’ issue is a telling example. The Japanese government admits foreign trainees in the field of nursing and care for the elderly. Most of them come from the Philippines and Indonesia and at the end of their training program are willing to become care workers in Japan, but less than 10% are able to pass the qualifying examination in Japanese language – an almost impossible task for a non-native speaker. Despite the mounting voices demanding the government to relax the linguistic requirements for the foreign candidates taking the healthcare workers qualifying exam, the regulation has remained the same, bringing into the limelight a broader issue – that of immigration. Even though significant efforts have been made to increase the number of foreign workers in Japan in the past two decades, with considerable results, the general attitude of the Japanese public towards immigrants is still mostly negative, which makes it difficult for the

136 government to take major steps in relaxing the immigration policies. (Green& Kadoya, 2013, Aoki, 2013). Stemming up from a traditional inclination to manufacture and establish emotional relationships with things artificial, Japan’s robotics research is aiming at revolutionizing the medical and nursing-care services for the elderly. The Japanese have tested and already introduced in hospitals various types of robots suitable for nursing, endowed with rehabilitation, monitoring and even empathetic functions (Nikkei, Nov. 5, 2014). Projects developing robots specifically adapted to interact with the elderly benefit from the support of the government, and are strongly promoted as part of a national strategic plan designed to enhance the socio-economic performance of Japan (The Government of Japan, 2014). Besides enthusiasm among most users, the nursing-care robots have raised concerns too, mainly with respect to the danger of depersonalization of human relations in health care facilities, and to the supplementary costs needed to train personnel and develop new deontological rules in operating the robots in the field of nursing-care. The phenomenon of the rapidly ageing population is closely linked to that of falling birthrates, in relation to which it is often analyzed. In the process, research topics such as fertility policies, work productivity and labor market take precedence. Numerous studies have sought to identify the causes and the social mechanisms behind these issues. In 1990, the TFR dropped to 1.57, a figure even lower than the record 1.58 of 1966 - Hinoe-Uma, i.e. Year of the Fire Horse, in which parents do not wish to have children on reasons of bad horoscope, and has been dropping ever since to the current value of 1.39. The high cost of rearing children, in both financial and time resources terms, the progressive family planning policies, the incremental changes in women’s status on the background of a strong tradition of men working long hours to support the family and women taking care of children and household affairs, as well as the lack of sufficient day care facilities for children have been pointed out as the main explanations of low fertility in Japan. The solutions put forth entail deeper systemic challenges pertaining to the core values of the Japanese society, such as gender gap and work-life balance. At the level of the Japanese government there is an acute urgency to address these issues in a comprehensive manner. The basic premise is that a rapidly shrinking population leads to a dramatic shortage of work force, the obvious risk being that of an unsustainable economy, with fewer working people to support a growing number of retired elderly. In order to solve this problem, Japan has several potential options: increase the number of women in the work force, bring additional migrant workers to Japan, encourage the elderly to reenter work force, and stimulate productivity through greater emphasis on education and innovation – all of these steps implying specific strategies which are included in the national reform plan and are simultaneously pursued into practice. Part of the wider economic reform plan Abenomics, “Womenomics” is a set of policies designed to tap on the highly skilled, yet mostly unused labor force represented by the Japanese women, a majority of whom (two thirds, according to OECD statistics) are compelled by tradition to give up work after marriage. Measuring

137 gender disparities in terms of work opportunities, wages and participation into politics, the Global Gender Gap Report 2014 released by the World Economic Forum places Japan in the 104th position out of 142 countries surveyed, the lowest ranking among the developed countries members of OECD. Rather than simply promoting women in the workplace and managerial positions up to certain targets (for instance 30% of leadership positions occupied by women until 2020), Womenomics is aiming at changing the entire corporate culture that makes it difficult to combine work and family life and at improving the institutional and fiscal environment in order to facilitate child rearing. Previous governmental policies, focused on keeping women in their traditional roles at home and men in long hours at work, in order to boost the birth rate, have proved to be wrong. A different approach, whose key word is work-life balance, is being currently embraced, with some companies, for instance, urging their employees to leave the office no later than 7 pm, which is leading to an increasing number of men shouldering the family chores and spending more time with their families. The assumed result is that a better work-life balance may positively influence not only child rearing environment but also people’s efficiency at work and their ability to remain in the work force for a longer period. Besides the above mentioned issues that are commonly researched in relation to population ageing in Japan, more recent studies provide new perspectives for analysis and fresh ground for debate, by focusing on less if ever previously investigated aspects. One example is offered by the studies that deal with the effects of rapid demographic decline in small rural communities on energy consumption patterns. So far it has generally been assumed that depopulation will mean “more living space, more arable land per head, and a higher quality of life”, as well as a lighter burden on the environment (Pierce, 2014). The reasoning behind this conclusion is based on data showing that a 1 percent increase in population has generated an equivalent 1 percent increase in CO2 emissions on a global level, the assumption being that the same relationship will be maintained in the reverse process. However, studies focusing on small depopulated communities in the countryside of Japan prove the contrary. In small villages hit by shrinking population, household infrastructure has largely remained the same, with fewer people inhabiting houses that were once used by larger, multigenerational families. Moreover, with most shops nearby shut down, distance to the closest shopping area has also increased. The combined result is a higher level of energy consumption and household emissions per capita in small ageing communities than in larger ones, sometimes even than in big cities like Tokyo and Osaka. An efficient reorganization of this type of communities is therefore needed. The first reaction of the Japanese central and local governments was to reverse the demographic decline happening in most rural communities, by using pro- growth policies, including expanding the industrial infrastructure, which in turn has led to a further increase in energy inefficiency. Completely closing down the extremely depopulated areas and relocating their residents in other areas is a radical option deemed unfeasible in a Japanese society that is deeply attached to native places. Upon this background there have emerged smart growth models of

138 compact cities, better equipped to provide services for smaller and older communities. For instance, by concentrating the main services and public transportation in several well-defined zones according to the so-called “shih kebab model”, and by offering subsidies for housing nearby, the local government in Toyama hopes to induce a more compact and energy efficient living pattern (Bird, 2014). Another area of recently discovered scholarly and public interest regarding ageing in Japan is the role of volunteer activity in tackling these problems. At first developed spontaneously, the system of volunteer teams that periodically check on elderly households, to make sure they take their medicines and even to make funeral arrangements, is spreading to a growing number of communities in Japan, benefitting from the support of local governments, too. Studies have shown that these activities are helpful to both the elderly and the young, activating social capital, contributing to community rebuilding on the backdrop of social isolation especially in urban communities, and even spurring innovation and the transfer of knowledge between generations (NHK, “Project 2030”, 2014). Therefore, the central government has included supporting voluntary activities in the medium and long term strategies of addressing demographic challenges.

Conclusions Romania’s population is projected to follow a process of constant ageing in the next years. In 2012, the percentage of persons aged 65 and older reached the same level as the young population (0-14 years old), namely 15%, and has been going up ever since, while the ratio of young people has kept on dropping. As of January 2014, the elderly (65+) represent 16.5% whereas the young, 15.5%, according to data released by the National Institute of Statistics. The median age of the Romanian population is close to 40 years old (38.3 as of 2010). For comparison, Japan reached the 15% threshold of 65+ elderly in 1995, 19 years before Romania and its current median age is 47. Based on these data, the forecast picture for Romania over the next 20-30 years appears to be very similar to the picture of today’s Japan. All estimates indicate that the Romanian population aged 65+ will almost double the current proportion to 30 – 33% by 2050, a figure comparable to that of almost 26% that Japan is experiencing today. Also, the total population is expected to shrink by 9% from 19.6 million to 17.8 million in 2050. Adding the fact that Romania already has the same TFR as Japan, 1.3 in 2014, it is right to conclude the Japanese evolution in terms of demographic ageing may be considered relevant to Romania. Even though the issue of ageing has recently climbed on the agenda of researchers and public policy makers in Romania, it is still far from being acknowledged as an issue of crucial importance, as it is in Japan. Romania is facing similar challenges to Japan and some of the solutions put into practice by the Japanese authorities have been implemented or taken into Romania as well. In order to improve the sustainability of the pension and health care system, measures such as increasing the VAT and other taxes, introducing the individual cofounding of the cost of health care system have already been applied in order to

139 prop up the growing budgetary needs for an ageing population. However, in Romania the VAT is already 24%, three times higher than the current consumption tax in Japan, therefore there is little leverage for further raise. Other measures taken into account are a gradual increase of the retirement age for women to 65 years old from the current 63, at a par with the age for men, by 2035. A special bill on this topic was adopted in June 2014. Specific issues related to ageing in Romania such as the depopulation of rural areas deemed to have serious effects on the agricultural output of a country with great potential in this field have been only touched upon, but not widely studied. The policies aimed at curbing the negative impact of demographic trends in Romania are reflecting the European Union strategy in this area, which is mainly focused on enhancing the active and healthy ageing, by means of partnerships among relevant stakeholders in both public and private spheres (European Commission, 2014). The EU vision tends to focus more on an idealistic image of healthy elderly, unlike the Japanese approach that is more pragmatic and therefore equally oriented towards efficient ways to cope with the diseases of old age. The major drawbacks of the Romanian approach to population ageing reside in a lack of a comprehensive vision on the issue (Bodogai& Cutler, 2013). Ageing is not among the topics of high priority neither on the political agenda, nor in the public space. The research is mostly descriptive and less evaluative or solution oriented, with almost no multidisciplinary perspective on the process of ageing. Also, the current level of cooperation between the public and the private sector, as well as among the public institutions in charge with various domains affected by the demographic trends, like education, innovation, rural development etc. is less than optimal. But Romania has the opportunity to capitalize on the Japanese experience in the process of dealing with ageing and ageing related challenges. The lessons learned by the Japanese in the past twenty years can offer clues and inspiration for creating a comprehensive Romanian strategy on ageing, designed in accordance with the specific needs and particularities of the Romanian socio- economic system. On the one hand, there are the Japanese good practices of a methodological nature – the way the Japanese think and act about ageing. Acknowledging the importance of ageing and its repercussion on a wide range of social aspects, in Japanese like manner, might provide fresh incentive for extending and deepening the research in this field in Romania, and for prioritizing the need to act at both macro and micro levels. Just like Japan did twenty years ago, Romania must improve its monitoring of the ageing phenomenon, focusing on data gathering and accurate statistics. Also, approaching the issue in a comprehensive, multidimensional and interdisciplinary way might provide a broader framework to identify the suitable instruments and measures needed to tackle ageing and its collateral effects. In addition, sharing experience and learning from the experience of others has helped the Japanese develop solutions (e.g. the Swedish model of public pension). The Romanians could follow this way of doing things, by putting more emphasis on comparative studies or on foreign training on specific issues. Most of all, a

140 higher degree of involvement in the ageing related problems on the part of political decision makers is very much needed in Romania, and Japan is a good example of this kind of involvement. On the other hand, there are the measures that the Japanese have developed in facing the challenges of ageing. These too might be of inspiration, on condition that they be adapted to the Romanian needs. Perhaps concentrating on health care robots in the same way as the Japanese do might not exactly be advisable for Romania right now, given the different cultural background, the lack of relevant infrastructure and the high investments needed, but tapping on the voluntary resources in a systematic way, looking for new ways to enhance innovation as one of the most feasible counter-measures to the shrinking workforce or concentrating on the problem of rural depopulation might be good lessons to learn from the Japanese.

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142 THE TAMING OF THE EARTHQUAKE. CAN ROMANIA LEARN FROM JAPAN?

Raluca NAGY and Horea SIBIŞTEANU*

Abstract: Conveying a comparative approach, with both cultural and technical elements, of earthquake management in Japan and Romania, this paper engages in channelling the existing global discussion around this natural disaster towards an understanding of discrepancies. Based on the available literature on social and technical dynamics of earthquakes, as well as on our own surveys and fieldwork experiences on earthquake representation and education carried out from 2012 in Romania and Japan, we argue that, whereas safe infrastructure represents an important financial effort for a developing country, education could be easily improved. Keywords: earthquake, Romania, Japan, prevention, education, risk assessment

Introduction

In this millennium it is estimated that significant earthquakes will damage several cities and mega-cities located close to regions of known seismic hazard. Several of these earthquakes have already happened, some of them very recently: the Haiti Earthquake (January 2010), the Great East Japan Disaster (March 2011, known as “3.11”); The Gorkha Earthquake in Nepal (April 2015); and the very recent earthquakes in Japan and Ecuador (spring 2016). 3.11 made this natural disaster a very timely topic, and a significant body of literature appeared immediately after, some would argue too soon to give a clear, non-emotional perspective. In the literature related to earthquakes, one thing all disciplines, from seismology to mainstream theology, seem to have in common is an insistence on the limits of our knowledge. We still have no means to accurately predict the time of any earthquake before the shaking starts. But prevention and action related to unpredictable natural disasters such as earthquakes does exist and, where it functions, the difference is significant. This paper is structured into two parts. The first part delivers a cultural introduction of the earthquake as it is holistically considered within the social sciences in general and by anthropology in particular. It is important to

* Dr. Raluca Nagy is Research Associate at the University of Sussex and Horea Sibişteanu is PhD candidate at the Technical University of Civil Engineering, Bucharest. We would like to thank Liviu Chelcea and Dorothee Hasnaş for their helpful comments on previous versions of this paper.

143 understand how earthquakes are culturally (and politically) represented in order to determine what part of knowledge regarding them is transferrable. The second part, more technical, discusses the risk management of this natural disaster, by comparing Romania to Japan. Japan is a developed country, with one of the highest seismic activity in the world due to an entire fault line along its territory, and the best prepared country when it comes to earthquakes. Romania is a developing country having on its territory “only” one epicentre, but sufficient to rank it among the European countries with the highest seismic activity; due to its geographic proximity to this epicentre, Bucharest is considered one of the most vulnerable cities in case of a major earthquake. With a 50-year periodicity1 and the last catastrophic earthquake having occurred in March 1977, an imminent recurrence is as present in the Romanian debates and media as in the Japanese. But things are different when it comes to action and management. Whereas safe infrastructure would represent an important financial effort for a developing country, even sectors like education, which could be easily improved, are detrimental.

Section I Fear and how it is managed, socially, politically and economically

‘Earthquake!’ she yells. ‘Did you feel it?’ I swear. She curses. Ordinary words fail us: we mouth obscenities in the cause of reassurance. But they are not enough. When I put the phone down I cannot calm myself. I put my hands out flat in front of me, palms down. They are still shaking. Stop freaking out, Helen, I tell myself. It’s OK. Nothing is broken. Everything is fine. But it is not. The earthquake has brought back all those childhood fears of apocalypse: all the expectation that the world would burn and boil. It is a very old, deep terror and it fells now that it has never gone away. The fabric of the world has torn. I cannot stitch it back together. (Helen Macdonald – H is for Hawk)

The entire world witnesses concern about the raising occurrence of natural hazards. The number of disasters and their impact have increased steadily during the past 20 years. Both are due to higher human exposure (directly related to the exponential increase in human population) and to a rise in the frequency and magnitude of the hazards (EM-DAT database). The social and economic costs of these natural hazards are substantial, for both damages and recovery (Alexander 1993; Twigg 2002; Armaş 2006). The largest number of disasters worldwide was registered in the year 2000 (850 events); among these, only 15% were earthquakes and volcanic

1 It is very difficult to estimate earthquake periodicity; most specialist opinions converge towards the assumption that the Vrancea Epicentre is unlikely to produce earthquakes with a magnitude higher than 7 degrees Richter more frequently than twice a century.

144 eruptions. And from the total of 9,270 casualties, earthquakes only caused approximately 5% (EM-DAT database). Less harmful in developed countries, they inflict calamity in developing countries, where the construction of earthquake resistant buildings is not properly accomplished as the capacity of economies to absorb such shocks and costs has been eroded (Blaikie et al., 1994). It is predicted that the annual fatality rate from earthquakes will rise in the next 30 years, attributable partly to moderate earthquakes near large cities, but mainly from a few catastrophic earthquakes near super-cities (Office of U.S. Foreign Disaster Assistance and the Centre for Research on the Epidemiology of Disasters OFDA/CRED). Therefore earthquakes remain bearers of the end-of- the-world panic. (Armaş 2006) Earthquakes have long been associated with the end of the world in theological and popular imaginations and have held a special significance in Christian apocalyptic tradition. Islamic tradition also has a seismological hint, as earthquakes make several appearances in the Qur’an. The association between earthquake and the end of the world is not limited to Western or monotheistic traditions: in Aztec cosmology, the current world is supposed to end with an earthquake, as the previous ones had ended by floods, fire, and storms. A variety of other religious and mythological traditions connect earthquakes with divine anger, indications of doom and cataclysms of the universe. Anthropologists have been interested in how people draw upon and alter their belief systems in efforts to come to terms with events of catastrophic change, violence, loss, resettlement, and even humanitarian relief (Lindstrom 1993, Maida 1996). These events can involve changes in social institutions like religious beliefs or customs (Stewart and Harding 1999), social organization (Colson 1973, Oliver-Smith 1977), attitudes and values (Bode 1977, Oliver-Smith 1992), even marriage institutions (Loizos 1977). Anthropologists have shown some of the adaptive strategies that even relatively isolated world populations have traditionally used to respond and cope with disasters from the environment, such as flood, drought, earthquake, volcanic explosion, and disease (Turton 1977, Torry 1978a, Zaman 1989, Tobin and Whiteford 2002). Supernatural beliefs gain strength when seemingly inexplicable natural disasters occur. One of the most recent and mediatised examples is the Sabah earthquake (Malaysia, June 2015) considered to be the result of tourist climbers on Mount Kinabalu stripping for a photo. Dr. Paul Porodong, an anthropologist from the Malaysia Sabah University, confirms that foreigners are being blamed because the incident

"fits well with local belief […] The blame on the nudists is a deduction on what is the previous or existing belief. Belief systems are about explaining unexplainable or unscientific phenomena. Mount Kinabalu to the local community is sacred, not a tourism product. To them, the mountain belongs to the spirit of their ancestors."

145 But anthropology’s role when it comes to the study of earthquakes is not reduced to understanding its symbolism and related supernatural beliefs. Its main contribution is the holistic study of the phenomenon in relation to political and economic contexts. There are several contemporary anthropological contributions following the life-cycle of a disaster event, from pre-disaster vulnerability and conceptions of risk to individual and social responses, coping strategies and relief management. In its most interesting approach, the “systemic”2 approach, disasters are considered both influence and products of human systems, rather than isolated, spontaneous, or unpredictable events. Special concern is attributed to how cultural systems (beliefs, behaviours, and institutions characteristic of a particular society or group) sit at the centre of disaster vulnerability, preparedness, mobilization, and prevention. These cultural systems, then, are crucial for understanding the contributing causes to disasters as well as the collective responses to them. Researchers also focus on how various actors involved in pre-disaster situations assess and define risk and vulnerability. Anthropologists have emphasized local models of risk construction, and stressed the importance of understanding the sociocultural context of judgments and indigenous categories and behaviours about what is dangerous and what is not. They note that public perceptions about risk and acceptability are shared constructs; a team of six seismologists is currently on trial in Italy for failing to predict the magnitude 6.3 quake that hit the city of L'Aquila (April 2009). Different societies think about and choose differently between risks, so studies must be based on culturally- informed values as much as on the social and political context (Wolfe 1988, Cernea 2000). Also, in the aftermath of a natural disaster, an elastic atmosphere prevails, reversing social order like in the case of carnivals. This is crucial in understanding how politics can shape, sometimes even highjack, risk assessment (Stephens 2002). But how have things changed when local/national responsibility became global? We can have a glimpse at this process by comparing two aftermaths, even though the first was not the direct result of an earthquake. In the years following the Chernobyl disaster (April 1986), risk assessment was effectively delegated away from individual or personal level to the realm of scientific “authoritative experts”. Stephens’ work shows the pressure among these experts to both inform an anxious public about the levels of risk surrounding nuclear energy, accidents and danger, yet simultaneously appease the public that everything is “normal” and “under control.” (2002) In their respective national media, citizens of Western European countries were ensured that the radiations “stopped” at the Alps.

2 Two other anthropological approaches to disasters bear note: 1) a “typological” approach, categorizing disasters by their logical type, such as drought, flood, cyclone, earthquake, chemical disaster, etc. (Franke 2004), and 2) a “processual” approach, which highlights that pre-disasters, disasters, and relief are continuous events which serve as instigators of social interactions, transformations, and reorganization (Hoffman and Lubkemann 2005).

146 In comparison, 25 years later Fukushima (3.11) became a global concern rather than a local natural tragedy: the disaster's images, along with those of refugees forced to leave their home, were disseminated instantly through the international and social media. There was a fundamental shift from “authoritative expertise” to “collective human responsibility”. The rise of hate speech around the issue of radioactivity was promoted by digital media through the pluralization of mediated expression and connection, engendering the formation of publics in a dissociative manner. People expressed diverse ideas and views and shared them without creating a dialogue between different perspectives. This influential power of media made it difficult for the Japanese Government to self-legitimise, be it in the name of national or international interests, and obstructed rather than facilitated public dialogue. (Iwabuchi 2013) We can notice here the traits of a typical neoliberal cacophony, made possible by the aforementioned power of disasters to alter political and power relations between individuals, the state, and international, supranational as well as multinational actors. Disasters may provide a kind of structuring idiom that allows people to more clearly apprehend their own position of power (or, rather, marginality) and responsibility relative to that of the supra-structures (Chairetakis 1991, Button 1992). This is the playground of political ecology, a new discipline taking into account culture, politics, power, globalization and localised issues; but its focus and data interpretation are often used for arguments for/against or the creation of policies that prevent corporate or non- governmental exploitation of natural disasters. The Chernobyl state-cajoled observer has become the NGO and multinational-duped Fukushima global activist, whether directly (organizing, participating) or indirectly (articles, documentaries, books, ethnographies, blogs, other social media) involved.

Taming the Earthquake - Culturalism or Technologism in Japanese Attitude?

Douglas and Wildavsky (1982) note that scientific ratios assessing levels of risk are incomplete measures of the human approach to danger, since they explicitly try to exclude culturally constructed ideas about fear versus more pragmatic factors, such as living “the good life.” When it comes to fear, different attitudes or beliefs may source from different embedded religious and moral traditions; but risky habits or dangerous behaviours are conformations to modern conspicuous lifestyles or breaches of legislation and norms, reflecting the increase in wealth and outweighing vulnerability. Mileti (1999) argues that any shift in preparedness for this vulnerability must include a shift in cultural premises that privilege practical solutions, not just the idea of them. In post-quake Nepal, stereotyped “culture of poverty” arguments were circulated. The disaster resulted after the earthquake was entirely due to the fact that Nepal is a poor country with no means to ensure a safe infrastructure, so nothing could be done about it.

Example of poverty discourse in the media:

147 JUDY WOODRUFF: One other thing, Jonah Blank.

And that is, with all the warnings that came from the geological experts about the fact that a big earthquake was coming here, why wasn’t more done to make sure that buildings were safer than they were?

JONAH BLANK: Because Nepal is one of the poorest countries in the world. It’s really by far one of the poorest countries in Asia. It’s almost on par with countries like the Democratic People’s Republic of Congo.

And it costs a lot of money to prepare for earthquake — buildings that are going to withstand these tremors. That is why Japan, a country that is racked by earthquakes, but very few fatalities, manages to do all right, but Nepal, a country that everyone knew was due for a terrible earthquake, has lost 5,000 so far, and we fear maybe 10,000 before this is all done.

JUDY WOODRUFF: Which calls to mind Haiti, another very, very poor country, of course, had its own catastrophe with the earthquake there.

(Interview PBS Newshour, April 29 2015, Why wasn’t Nepal better prepared for an earthquake that everyone expected?3) The narratives around the Haiti Earthquake had been somewhat different, pointing to poor education rather than poverty. For start, 200 years had passed since the last significant earthquake in Haiti; expensive building materials that have to be almost exclusively imported from the Dominican Republic as a result of deforestations in Haiti; and lack of elementary knowledge in construction because of very poor education were all given as reasons, with stress on the last one. [A more symbolically- /supernatural belief- drawn explanation in terms of a “pact with the devil”4 brings us back to Mount Kinabalu]. The point here is that being a developed, wealthy country certainly helps in the case of a natural disaster; but it is not sufficient. After 3.11, “collectivist culture” and community spirit were often mentioned as main reasons for the vigorous post-disaster mobilization; culturalism and the specific Japanese attitude to earthquakes, rather than technologism – the idea that everything is due to hi-tech -, saved the day: “the extraordinary sense of calm on the Japanese archipelago amid conditions which in perhaps any other place would have led to chaos.”

“The Japanese culture encourages a heightened sense of individual responsibility, but also a very powerful sense of solidarity, and that is a very powerful combination”, considers sociologist Frank Furedi. (The National Post, 2011)

3 http://www.pbs.org/newshour/bb/didnt-nepal-prepare-inevitable-earthquake/ 4 http://blogs.ssrc.org/tif/2010/02/18/haitis-pact-with-the-devil-some-haitians-believe- this-too/

148 “In Japanese culture, there’s a sort of nobility in suffering with a stiff upper lip, in mustering the spiritual, psychological resources internally”, explains anthropologist John Nelson. (idem)

Theories abound as to what makes the Japanese so resilient and willing to cooperate. Some cite the centuries-old need to work together to grow rice on a crowded archipelago prone to natural disasters. Others point to the hierarchical nature of human relations and a keen fear (we are back to fear) of shaming oneself before others.

“It strikes me as a Buddhist attitude,” […] “Westerners might tend to see it as passivity, but it’s not that. It takes a lot of strength to stay calm in the face of terror.” anthropologist Glenda Roberts declared at the time (Associated Press, 2011).

How Japanese people deal emotionally with earthquakes is reflected in their culture in an abundance of ways; but their composed behaviour does not necessarily mean that they detach it from the idea of fear or horror. Let us look at the video game Siren (サイレン), which takes place in the fictional village of Hanuda, a remote local home to a small group of farmers. At the beginning of the game an earthquake followed by a strange sound (the siren, after which the game is named) signal a change of state in the area: it becomes separated from the rest of the world and the lake that surrounds the village turns pink. (Pruet, 2009) The devastating Kobe earthquake in 1995, which killed about 6,000 people and injured 26,000 is the progenitor of modern films such as Ring and Ju-on (The Grudge). References to these events seem obvious, even though narratives are immersed in traditional folklore and modern Japanese ideas about horror.

We argue that the success of earthquake management in Japan resides neither in technologism, nor in culturalism, but in education. Does development and wealth lead to prevention? Do frequency and previous experience lead to prevention? Does “collectivist culture” help with the fear, chaos and aftermath? Of course they do. But education makes the significant difference. In the following section we shall show the importance of education in earthquake management by comparing Japan and Romania following three analysis dimensions: Earthquake Education, Disaster Prevention Day and Earthquake Risk Management.

Section II Earthquake-related Education

In May 2010, the Japanese Ministry of Education, Culture, Sports, Science and Technology (MEXT) reported some valuable results on evacuation behaviour principles assessment in an official document titled “Working Groups Report for Evacuation Behaviour Based on Earthquake Disaster Prevention Researches‟.

149 The study lists the four principles for Earthquake Evacuation Behaviour, verified for the past earthquake occurrences: (a) Seeking sturdy furniture as a refuge, (b) Protecting one’s head and hiding one’s body, (c) Not going out from inside a building after feeling the earthquake (d) Checking fire sources when an earthquake occurs. “Seeking sturdy furniture as a refuge” shows mixed results. When an earthquake occurs with a magnitude of 6 or 7 degrees on the Richter scale, people find it difficult to seek and move into sturdy furniture due to the big shake. 10% of the casualties in the Kobe earthquake were due to collapsed furniture, and people were also injured while in the process of seeking safe furniture. There are both survivor and non-survivor cases following the four principles. But the importance of the Report does not reside in the consolidation or criticism of the four principles; in return, it highlights the importance of individuals being in a position of making decisions related to their situation. In other words, it is down to each person to react correctly based on the evacuation instructions they had received (Yun 2013). But how does one reach an informed, accurate decision within seconds, under the impact of such fundamental embedded fears and reactions as those generated by an earthquake? The answer is: by practicing. The only way is to learn and train until the good decision becomes reflex, almost like driving a car. Therefore in Japan, there are two different programs for Disaster Education only for primary school. The first one, organised by MEXT, educates and trains teachers in specially organised classes on how to explain to pupils what they have to do in the case of earthquake occurrence. The other programme regularly introduces to class speakers from the local prefectures’ Disaster Preparation Councils, who, as we had the opportunity to observe in Tokyo, teach the pupils about survival techniques and stress the importance of taking them seriously and practicing them regularly. The importance of early education even for pre-school children is revealed by Yun’s research; she conducted a post 3.11 survey in Kamaishi and Kesennuma, and found out that from the total number of over 1,000 casualties, only 5 were pre-school children (out of a total of 3,244 pre-school children in the area) and only 12 were pupils/students (out of a total of 6,054). (2013) Yun traced back the figures and discovered that three out of the five children victims weren’t attending the Earthquake Disaster Preparation Class especially designed for kindergartens/pre-school children. In the interviews carried across the area, entire families declared that they uniquely survived due to their child. When the Disaster Alarm started ringing, they decided against going to the designated shelter - a jaded attitude can develop when one experiences earthquakes frequently - but the child insisted. There is more evidence to suggest that early and constant exposure to education increases knowledge of the threat and leads to better pre-and post-disaster preparedness. Prevention training crucially affects preparedness behaviour. In Romania, the General Inspectorate of Emergency Situations (IGSU), directly subordinated to the Ministry of Interior Affairs, is in charge of the

150 educational programs related to natural disasters. IGSU works in partnerships with the Ministry of Education and Research, and with other public institutions such as the National Audio-visual Council of Romania, to provide material for education and information, available on the IGSU website; teachers have the freedom to use this materials in dutifully informing students twice during elementary school, once in secondary school and once in high school (a total of four times in twelve years of education), as stated by the Order no. 1508/2058/5709 from the 20th of November 2006. There is no specific recurrent programme/class regarding earthquakes; the format and input are decided by each teacher and no expert involvement is required. Between 2013 and 2014 we observed how earthquake prevention was taught in Romanian schools and then delivered prevention classes ourselves; the majority of students had no knowledge of the basic things that one has to do if an earthquake occurs or how to be prepared for a major natural disaster in general (e.g. they could not distinguish between measures in case of an earthquake or a fire). At the beginning of 2015, IGSU launched the National Campaign for the Information and Preparation of the Population, choosing a rather unfortunate word-play as motto, which translates into “I don’t shake at the earthquake” (“Nu tremur la cutremur”5); the purpose of the campaign was to “inform the citizens correctly about the modalities in which they can protect themselves in case of an earthquake”. Representatives of IGSU and military firemen spoke to pre-school children and pupils about disaster management and handed them informative materials. A national TV campaign introduced short animations about how to behave at the occurrence of an earthquake. Many people we interviewed in autumn 2015 had still never heard of the campaign and never seen the films or related materials (flyers, brochures); at best, some of them thought the initiative was local (the town-hall), rather than a well- established national campaign. Many quoted other visual material with more outreach than the short animations.

Disaster Prevention Day

The Disaster Prevention Day equally illustrates the radical difference in attitude when it comes to earthquake education and related policies. Every year on the 1st of September Japan celebrates Disaster Prevention Day. The date is not chosen by chance: on September 1 1923 Japan was struck by the Great Kanto Earthquake. With a magnitude of 7.9 the quake devastated Tokyo, Yokohama and other surrounding prefectures. It was one of the worst earthquakes in the history of Japan because it coincided with a typhoon that made the fires due to earthquake spread rapidly. From the 1960s, the Japanese Government declared the commemoration of this earthquake an annual Disaster Prevention Day. In terms of the responsibility discussion from the previous

5 http://nutremurlacutremur.ro/campanie.htm

151 section, this choice could be considered an interesting choice of “nationalising” risk. Emergency drills organised by the local governments are held throughout the whole country on the 1st of September. Some of them consist in ducking under desks to escape falling objects or evacuating buildings. At numerous elementary and secondary schools, it is the day when classes resume after the summer holidays, so the evacuation drill is part of the back-to-school ceremony. In 2012 we witnessed a drill, with pupils exiting the building in a perfect line, schoolbags on their heads. A year later we observed, in one of the many Tokyo parks, located in front of the Museum dedicated to the Great Kanto Earthquake, the activities organised on a seismic platform, including an earthquake simulator. Even taking into account a possible post 3.11 overzealousness, or the commemoration of 90 years from the Great Kanto Earthquake, these events were taken very seriously by everyone involved. A Disaster Prevention Day is organized every year in Romania by IGSU, on the first Tuesday 13 of the year, placing the focus on the superstitious and super-natural aspect and conveying a fatalistic twist, at best ironic, like “I don’t shake at the earthquake” campaign. The explanation on the IGSU website is supposed but fails to place the focus on information and individual responsibility:

“Some superstitious people consider ‘Tuesday 13’ an unlucky day, but we claim it is not so. Often we create the ‘misfortune’ ourselves through mere lack of information. We can prevent this by keeping informed, as John Davison Rockefeller famously stated: ‘an informed person is a strong man.’”

Also, the choice of date makes it variable every year, thus futile because impossible to remember: in 2013 it was held on August 13; in 2014 on May 13; there is no information on the IGSU website about 2015 or 2016 and we doubt anything happened. In 2013 and 14 IGSU organised workshops for children and parents in order to inform them about earthquakes and other natural disasters, but the optional, informal atmosphere seemed inappropriate, considering the gravity of the situation they were educating people for.

Earthquake Risk Management

Seismic Risk is expressed with regard to the vulnerability of a building and the hazard that occurs. Earthquake resistant technology has been around for a long time. Japan is famous for traditionally having the best designed buildings in the world to resist in case of an earthquake. Gojunoto is an earthquake- resistant pagoda erected in 1407 in Nara. The five stories oscillate in opposed phases when there are tremors, which keeps the structure from breaking apart. There is no evidence of the structure ever collapsing. The same technique is used in modern buildings. After the Kobe earthquake, Japan channelled enormous resources towards new research on protecting structures, as well as retrofitting the country's older and more vulnerable buildings. Billions have been spent

152 developing the most advanced technology against earthquakes and tsunamis. Japan's building code allows for roughly half as much sway back and forth at the top of a high rise during a major quake than anywhere else in the world. In 2012, 75% of the buildings in Japan were declared earthquake resistant. Plans to improve Japan's earthquake readiness include increasing this percentage to 90 in the near future and introducing subsidies and tax breaks to encourage citizens to make necessary changes and retrofitting. It is worth mentioning that the life-spam of buildings is relatively short in Japan, so most of them are modern and have aligned to the newly set safety standards. New apartment and office developments in Japan flaunt their seismic resistance as a marketing technique, a fact that has accelerated the use of the latest technologies. Under Tokyo, construction crews have built tunnel-size ducts for water, electricity, telephone and sewage lines that are resistant to earthquakes.6 According to de Earthquake Design Codes, in Romania buildings are assigned one of four Seismic Risk Classes. Class I covers buildings with the highest risk of collapse in case of earthquake. Class II represents buildings that can suffer major structural degradations but do not lose stability. Class III represents buildings that would not incur major structural degradation, but the non-structural elements may suffer major degradation during an earthquake. Finally, class IV represents buildings that behave as were designed to [P100- 3/2008]. Many of the existing buildings were erected prior to 1945 and are identified as having a very high risk of collapse (Class I) in case of a strong earthquake. Most of these buildings are situated in Bucharest. An almost four times larger number of billings are equally in danger, but have lower seismic risk (Class II). After 1998, national public authorities marked the Class I Seismic Risk buildings with a “red dot”, not only as an alarm bell but as a symbolic killer for the success on the real estate market, hoping the owners would take responsibility and put pressure on the local authorities to have them retrofitted. Nevertheless, in the last decade, from the 123 highly vulnerable buildings in downtown Bucharest, less than 15% were fully retrofitted. Even this figure is not entirely trustworthy - the professional expertise of the assessments is presently under scrutiny; therefore more realistic/pessimistic statistics claim that only 13 buildings, not percent, have been consolidated in Bucharest from 1994 to present7. Buildings erected in the last couple of decades are considered even less safe, as a result of the chaotic post 1989 real estate market doubled by the poorly respected building standards that went hand in hand with the weakening of the nation state and of the national education standards. In a survey that we

6 Having said that, a 2010 survey by the Japanese Health, Labor and Welfare Ministry found out that only 34 percent of Japan's water mains were quake resistant. 7 Statistics regarding the state of buildings are difficult to obtain, the obstruction being often a powerful real-estate market tool. We compiled available data from 1992 to present, pondering it with information from architects and public functionaries who participated in these consolidation projects.

153 launched in February 2016, the buildings constructed between 1978 and 1992 were considered the safest by the majority of respondents in Bucharest.

Table 1: Evaluated Buildings in Romania8 Seismic Risk Class Number of Total Total number of County evaluated number of I II III IV buildings buildings residents Bacău 6 28 5 2 98 172.612 583.590 Botoşani 36 22 - - 68 125.215 398.932 Brăila 30 1 - - 54 76.133 304.925 Braşov 11 8 4 - 48 91.701 505.442 Bucharest 374 302 75 6 2.560 113.863 1.883.425 Călăraşi - 1 2 - 4 92.485 285.107 Caraş-Severin 9 4 1 - 14 76.349 27.277 Constanţa 9 14 3 3 69 126.826 630.679 Covasna 1 1 1 - 3 57.159 206.261 Dâmboviţa - 5 1 - 13 161.455 501.996 Galaţi 79 34 2 - 115 116.455 507.402 Ialomiţa - - 3 - 5 82.482 258.669 Iaşi 2 11 6 - 264 172.290 732.553 Mehedinţi 1 17 - - 28 91.553 254.570 Olt 6 - - - 6 140.813 415.530 Prahova 41 23 8 - 74 213.052 735.883 Teleorman 1 - 35 - 47 133/611 360.178 Tulcea 3 - - - 14 66.446 201.468 Vâlcea - 1 1 - 33 132.982 355.320 Vrancea - 6 17 - 23 112.046 323.080

Not even public buildings, such as schools and hospitals, have a different fate. According to the Romanian Ministry of Health there are 68 severely damaged hospitals that require immediate technical assessment. The Ministry of Education and Scientific Research also declared vulnerable 95 schools; only half of them are included in programs for rehabilitation or have been rehabilitated. In Romania, hospitals, schools and administrative governmental buildings are designed as Class I and II importance, according to the Earthquake Design Code P100/1-2013. This importance class is given by the importance factor γ1,e., a variable that makes the value of the earthquake force bigger than the real one. The Class I and II buildings should resist to a bigger earthquake force than an ordinary building, as shown in Table 2 [P100-1/2013].

Table 2: The Importance Factor According to P100/1-2013 The The importance Building type importance class factor Essential buildings: I 1.4 - hospitals that have an Emergency Room and/or a Surgery

8 Ministry of Development

154 Room; - Fire stations, police buildings, garages for Emergency Services and multi-story car parks; - Power Plants; - Buildings that store explosives, toxic gas or other dangerous substances; - The General Inspectorate of Emergency Situations buildings; - Emergency Situations Shelters; - Essential buildings for Public Administration; - Essential buildings for National Security; - Water tanks. Buildings that represents a major risk for public safety if they are severely damaged or collapse: - Hospitals, others than Class I, that have a capacity of more than 100 people; - Schools, high schools and university buildings with a capacity of more than 250 persons; - Apartment or office buildings with a capacity of more than 300 people; - Conference rooms, theatres, cinemas, exhibition halls II with a capacity of more than 200 people, stadiums and 1.2 tribunes; - Museums and National Cultural Heritage buildings; - One-storey buildings, malls or other buildings with a capacity of more than 1000 people; - Multi-stored car parks with a capacity of more than 500 cars, others than Class I; - Jails; - Power plants; - Buildings with a total height larger than 45m; III Ordinary buildings, other than the other classes. 1.0 Buildings with a low importance in public safety such as IV 0.8 agricultural or provisional buildings.

In Japan, after most injuries at one hospital during the Kobe earthquake were the result of falling beams or furniture, measures were taken to reduce these kinds of accidents: the use of metal fittings to secure furniture to the walls, but also reinforcing the ceiling and floors with steel girders, adding pillars, strengthening the foundation by adding more concrete and steel, etc. None of the above apply for Romania after the last big earthquake in 1977. The resistance of buildings is not the only strength of Japan when it comes to earthquake risk management. Every neighbourhood has a map with a designated shelter; most people carry in their wallet a flyer with basic information about these shelters (and other useful information in case of an earthquake); supplies such as solar chargers or can food are cheap and easy to buy and store. The “earthquake survival bag” is supposedly a common thing that Japanese people store near their beds or within reach. Other than the General Inspectorate of Emergency Situations and the Red Cross, Japan has numerous active

155 volunteers (doctors, engineers or other trained specialists) in easily accessible databases and very well prepared to help in case of an emergency. In Romania there is no general or local plan for action, no hot-line or assigned spaces for gathering, everything being left at the discretion of individual responsibility and micro-planning. People have no idea what to do or where to go in case their building collapses during an earthquake; schools and public buildings that have been officially designated as shelters in case of a natural hazard are not equipped with first aid supplies. Some buildings have an atomic shelter in the basement but it is usually locked and the Building Manager is the sole holder of the key; there are no provisions or supplies stored in these shelters, moreover, many of them are sordid and partially flooded. There is no culture of the “earthquake survival bag”. Old people who survived the wars do have some culture of supplies, but in general they store basic foods such as flour, sugar, etc., useless in case of a calamity. In 2013, the Bucharest town hall claimed to have distributed to inhabitants of “red dot” buildings some 4000 survival packs; some of the receivers declared that they contained flashlights and dry beans but no batteries or water; regardless, this superfluous gesture contrasts dramatically with the former mayor of Bucharest’s fatalistic declaration that, in the case of an important earthquake, 500.000 people (more than a quarter of the city’s population) would be left without a home. A big earthquake has a 50-year recurrence in Romania and the last devastating one happened in 1977, so the Government thinks it is time for taking action. What this “action” means in practical terms, other than a semi-failed cartoon campaign on TV, remains a mystery.

Conclusions

Considering the current increasing fear and frequency of natural disasters and their consequences, we proposed a holistic and comparative approach of earthquake management in Romania and Japan. Romania’s earthquake risk is one of the highest in Europe, Japan’s is one of the highest in the world. But the possibility of a major earthquake occurring very soon is very feared, present, debated and reflected in both cases. The comparison can be considered unequal, as it is between a developing and a developed country, with a major cultural gap as well as in access to new technologies allowing an efficient prevention. The frequency of important earthquakes is not as high in Romania compared to Japan. Experience, especially doubled by economic development, increases prevention and risk management, and this is easily noticeable in the case of Japan. Short- and mid-term memory of a generation is very important in mobilising fear constructively, and 1977 was, in these terms, a long time ago. The end-of-the-world association might be a curse rather than a blessing in modern times, in the sense that a big earthquake has become in Romania that nightmare no one wants to think about and people hope will not happen; therefore thinking about the earthquake has the same momentous effect as watching apocalyptic films. The current global and social media and instant access to information

156 about earthquakes occurring in other parts of the world should be sufficiently visual and reminiscent - they are not fiction. With the extensive abandonment by the state of any social issues and the shift of responsibility towards the individuals in the last 25 years, Romania could be suffering from a more severe form of neoliberalism than Japan - still a “collectivist culture”. The same rampant neoliberalism could be the explanation of poor endorsement of security standards for the buildings erected after 1989 and difficulties in endorsing those norms against the benefit of the real estate market. After all, everything connected to the city is political. But prevention and survival techniques taught via consistent education from an early age are uncostly, easily accessible and transferrable. Yet, surprisingly, even in this respect, the differences between Japan and Romania seem unexceeding, especially when it comes to attitude.

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159 A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME IS STILL A ROSE …OR IS IT? ON GENDER ROLES IN CONTEMPORARY JAPAN

Magdalena CIUBĂNCAN*

Abstract: Although it is a rather recent research area, the study of gender as a social and cultural construct has enjoyed wide popularity, but it has been generally understood as the study of the condition of women and the changes that it has been subjected to throughout the time. However, in recent years we have witnessed a change in the way in which men’s roles are constructed, shifting from the masculine image of a powerful man to that of a rather feminine male. Starting from the Japanese journalist Maki Fukasawa’s terms of “herbivorous men” and “carnivorous women”, the present paper analyses the way in which this gender shift is illustrated by the top buzzwords that are selected each year by the Jiyuu Kokuminsha Publishing House and presents a number of theories that might explain the reasons behind this process. Furthermore, we find evidence to support the adoption by Japanese men of a new image, distinct from that of their fathers and grandfathers, and we identified certain commercial items that have been traditionally addressed to women but which are now increasingly used by men. Keywords: gender roles, gender shift, herbivorous men, feminization.

Generally regarded as social constructs referring to the set of norms that are socially appropriate for individuals of a specific sex in the context of a specific culture, gender roles have been mainly discussed in relation to the changes that the condition of women in various cultures has witnessed. Gender studies in Japan have also been largely synonymous with women studies, the first Japanese article regarding American women’s studies having appeared in a 1974 issue of Fujinmondai Konwakai Kaiho (Kuninobu 1984: 1). While it is true that it is the women’s status that has gone through the most obvious transformations over time, it is equally interesting to look at the present condition of men and to the differences between the traditional and contemporary gender roles of men. The Japanese society provides an especially fruitful area of research, since it is here that the gap between the traditional and the contemporary society appears to be extremely visible in comparison with Western societies, largely due to the reduced period of time in which they have occurred.

The starting point of our research was the annual Top 60 of the most popular Japanese words and phrases, which is published every year by the Jiyuu

* Assistant Professor, “Dimitrie Cantemir” Christian University

160 Kokuminsha Publishing House. A quick look into the Top 10 buzzwords between 2008 and 2014 reveals that certain aspects regarding Japanese men and women have become so present in society that the words and phrases denoting them have been popular enough to be selected as „words of the year”. Thus, in 2008 we find the katakana coinage アラフォー (Arafō), which is the abbreviation of the English phrase „Around 40”. The expression Arafō became famous when it gave the name of a popular TV series focusing on issues regarding the career and the personal life of a woman of about 40 years of age. In 2009, Top 10 of the Jiyuu Kokuminsha offers probably the most representative phrases that illustrate the changes that the Japanese society has undergone: 草食男子 (sōshoku danshi - herbivorous men) and 肉食女子 (nikushoku joshi - carnivorous women). Pop culture columnist Maki Fukasawa coined the term sōshoku danshi in 2006 in a series of articles posted on the Nikkei Business Online website on October 13, 2006. She used the phrase to describe young men who, although having a general interest in heterosexual love and sex, do not show positive attitudes toward them. At that time, however, the term did not receive special attention. The term became highly popular especially after Megumi Ushikubo, the president of the Tokyo-market research firm Infinity used it in the title of her book “Soshokukei Danshi Ojo-man Ga Nippon wo Kaeru (The Herbivorous Ladylike Men Are Changing Japan)”, published in November 2008. Through interviews with around 100 men in their mid 20s and early 30s in Tokyo and other major cities, Ushikubo concluded that the herbivorous boys have a combination of the following characteristics: fashion-consciousness, lack of competitive spirit, no interest in dating girls, having relationships or even having sex, rejection of both the Japanese and the Western standards of masculinity. Ushikubo estimates that 60 percent of today's men aged 20-34 fall somewhat into the sōshokukei category. Regarding the reasons behind the emergence of this distinct category of Japanese men, there are several theories that can be cited here. Ushikubo considers that the younger generation today has grown up not knowing what it is like to live in good economic times. The previous generation, people who are now about 40 years of age, experienced a time of great prosperity and optimism during the asset-bubble economy of the late 1980s. The constant economic decline that the generation of sōshoku danshi has witnessed has left its print onto the mentality of these young men. This, Ushikubo suggests, explains their cool, resigned view toward work — and their growing fashion-consciousness, which is the only ego- booster left for them1. Another theory accounting for the appearance of herbivorous men belongs to Masahiro Morioka, author of "Soshokukei Danshi no Ren-ai Gaku (The How- to Guide to Relationships for Soshokukei Boys)," published in July 2008, who attributes the sōshokukei trend to the postwar peace Japan has enjoyed for the last six decades. In an interview for The Japan Times, he claims that while manliness at its best can be seen on the battlefields, the current situation in Japan favors a life without the need for a man to assert his masculinity:

1 http://search.japantimes.co.jp/cgi-bin/fl20090510x1.html (Retrieved on 2016/01/23)

161 "The most 'manly' men, I think, are soldiers on the battlefields. But the pressures for men to act manly have gradually faded over the last six decades. As a result, the (per capita) rate of murders committed by men in their 20s in Japan is now the lowest in the world. Behind all this is the fading of social values that have driven men into violent acts. Men don't have to be violent any more, and that's why they can be herbivorous."2

Morioka also claims that Japan actually offers a good environment for the development of such a category. He argues that Japan had a group of herbivorous men during the Edo Period (1603-1867), when peace under the Tokugawa Shogunate lasted for 260 years.

"Japan has long had a tradition of men acting like women in public places, such as in kabuki. And during the Edo Period, some boys are known to have been raised as girls, dressed up in girls' kimono (apparently due to a widely held belief that doing so would lead to their healthy development). And in shunga (pornographic illustrations from the Edo Period), men are depicted as if they were women, dressed up in beautiful kimono and doing their hair up like women's."3

Regardless of the reasons behind the emergence of the distinct category of herbivorous men, their existence cannot be denied. While some worry that the role that such men can play in today’s society is not what the Japanese society actually needs at the moment, others, such as Morioka above, consider herbivorous men just a natural development of gender roles in Japan.

Returning to the Jiyuu Kokuminsha buzzwords Top 10, in 2010 we find two more phrases that support the idea that the Japanese society is in a process of change, at least in regard to the traditional view on gender roles. The two phrases that we picked up as representative for the point under discussion are イクメン (ikumen) and 女子会 (joshikai). The coinage ikumen comes from the combination of the words 育児 (ikuji - child-rearing) and メン (men). Ikumen refers to men who are engaged in raising a child. Probably an unthinkable concept in traditional Japan, stay-at-home dads now even get support from the state, since The Health, Labor and Welfare Ministry began its „Ikumen Project”4 to increase the number of men taking leave from the rock-bottom level as compared with European nations. Seminars aimed at men on how to develop parenting skills are being held across the country and father figures who take time out of their work to spend time with their kids are being applauded in the media.

2 http://search.japantimes.co.jp/cgi-bin/fl20090510x1.html (Retrieved on 2016/01/23) 3 http://search.japantimes.co.jp/cgi-bin/fl20090510x1.html (Retrieved on 2016/01/23) 4 http://ikumen-project.jp/index.html (Retrieved on 2015/11/18)

162 Joshikai (women’s get-togethers), on the other hand, refers to women gatherings in which men are not allowed to take part. Many researchers who studied the condition of women in Japan have pointed out that to be a woman in the Japanese society can be regarded as a disadvantage, at least in terms of self- determination. This disadvantage appears very clearly in the Confucian-inspired Meiji Civil Code of 1898, which “enshrined patriarchy and patrilinealism as the norm for all Japanese families” (Waswo 1996: 149). The Code vested authority over family matters in the household head – the husband. Wives were treated as minors and had no property rights, while sons took precedence over daughters. During the 1890s, a significant reformulation of gender ideology occurred when the government began to shoulder the responsibility for running the household and raising children under the catchphrase of good wives and wise mothers – 良妻賢母 (Garon 1997:102). Women involvement in public life was however still extremely limited, if not inexistent. Later developments5 brought some changes to the status of women in the Japanese society and the development trend was similar to what happened in the western societies, with women gaining more and more access into politics and the public life. Although there are still many voices that claim that Japan is behind Western Europe or the US in terms of women emancipation, one cannot deny the fact that the situation of the condition of women in Japan has followed the path that is to be found in the historical development of the condition of women in the West. Changes in the family can also be seen in the rejection of omiai, the traditional arranged marriage. Women are also marrying later, with the average age of first marriage at 28.8 years in 20126. In the workforce, there has also been a rise in the number of single career women who have been successful in the professional field. The popularity of joshikai is not surprising at all in these conditions, showing once again that women are becoming more and more aware of their power as individuals of the society. Judging strictly by the Top 10 buzzwords, the years following the 2011 Tōhoku earthquake and tsunami appear to be characterized by a mixture of attempts to either reinstate the traditional image of ‘masculine men’ or show a (victimizing) image of men taking over traditional women’s roles such as housework. In 2012, one of the buzzwords was ワイルドだろぉ - wairudo darō (Wild, right?), a catchphrase belonging to a popular comedian who uses it accompanied by the suffix –da ze, which makes sentences to sound very masculine. In 2014, three expressions related to gender roles are included in the buzzwords of the year: 輝く女性 - kagayaku josei (shining women), 家事ハラ - kaji- hara (housework harassment) and マタハラ - mata-hara (maternity harassment). ‘Shining women’ was used by the Prime Minister Shinzō Abe when discussing the importance of helping women reach their full potential in today’s society, as well as the factors that prevent them from succeeding in doing so. The Prime Minster promised support for women, regardless of whether they work inside the home or outside the home and highlighted their importance for Japan’s social and economic growth. In the same year, the housebuilder Asahi Kasei Homes

5 The amendment of the 1890 Public Peace Police Law (Chian Keisatsu) in 1922 or the granting of universal suffrage to women after 1945 6 http://stats-japan.com/t/kiji/14290 (Retrieved on 2016/01/30)

163 produced a video based on a survey of 1,371 “double-income families” with children. Seventy percent of the husbands surveyed said they had been subjected to kaji-hara, or “housework harassment,” by their wives. Asahi Kasei Homes defined kaji-hara as “an attitude of finding fault with a husband’s housekeeping methods.”7. Mata-hara (maternity harassment) came into the spotlight after a female physiotherapist in Hiroshma was demoted following her pregnancy and proceeded to file a lawsuit against the hospital, with the Supreme Court ruling in her favour. It is now used to refer to words or actions that discriminate against women on the basis of pregnancy or childbirth, particularly when it involves employment issues8. The above-mentioned aspects reflect obvious changes in the way in which gender roles are being understood in contemporary Japan. While in the case of women the process of emancipation can be easily regarded as a natural result of the development of the society which demands equal importance of both sexes, in the case of men, the changes are more difficult to explain. The supreme position of the male has been at the basis of the Japanese society for hundreds of years. The combined influences of Confucianism, Buddhism, and the samurai culture established the position of men as superior, all these beliefs and institutions being highly discriminatory towards women. Confucianism stressed the preeminence of men over women, stating: "A woman is to obey her father as daughter, her husband as wife, and her son as aged mother." (Murakami 1978: 17). A basic teaching of Buddhism is that salvation is not possible for women, and the samurai believed that "...a woman should look upon her husband as if he were heaven itself.” (Hane 1986: 36). This masculine superiority is hard to find in the above-described sōshoku danshi, ikumen or kaji- hara. The image of the traditional Japanese man was still very powerful in the 1980s, when the era of salary man was at its peak. Salary men were often compared to the old days’ samurai:

„The roots of the salary man can be traced at least as far back as the Tokugawa period, for after 1600 when Japan achieved internal stability, the military functions of the samurai withered away and many samurai became, in effect, administrators working for the clan government. With the abolition of samurai class distinctions in early Meiji, many ex-samurai became white- collar workers in government offices and government-sponsored industry. The similarity between the samurai administrator and the salary man has led many Japanese to refer to the salary man as the modern samurai. His brief case is compared to the samurai's swords, his company with the feudal fief, his readiness to uphold his company's interests with the samurai's readiness to do battle for his feudal lord.” (Vogel 1971: 5)

7http://www.japantimes.co.jp/news/2014/08/16/national/media-national/home-hard- work/#.Vwe61zEsCVd 8 http://gakuran.com/top-50-japanese-buzzwords-2014/ (Retrieved on 2016/01/30)

164 Contemporary Japan shows however a different reality. According to Maki Fukasawa, the herbivorous men of Japan are rebelling against the salary man generation of their fathers, consciously turning away from the macho era of the 1980s. The image of the young Japanese men is probably one of the cultural shocks that foreigners have when they first encounter the contemporary Japanese pop- culture. What makes them different from young people in other corners of the world? The first thing that is noticed is undoubtedly their extravagant looks, with many elements that one would not expect to find in a man’s collection of clothes or accessories. It is true that masculinity and femininity have never been as wide apart in Japan as in the west. For hundreds of years, the basic garment for both men and women has been a kimono, for example. Even in modern times, gender differences have been limited. Not only are more women entering the work force, but more men are embracing their feminine sides. This tendency is actually supported by a whole very serious industry. Let us consider some illustrative examples. One of the main areas in which the feminization of men is clearly noticed is that of clothing. Men wearing items of clothing generally reserved for women are not a rare sight in Japan. Belly-button exposing T-shirts, tight shorts, skirts, dresses and even bras9 are common pieces of clothing that are to be found in the wardrobe of an herbivorous man. While the wearing of skirts or dresses could be somehow linked with the wearing of yukata10, the existence of companies that produce bras for men is not something of the ordinary, at least for the western person.

9 A search on the Japanese shopping site Rakuten reveals seven pages containing 278 “men’s bras” items: http://search.rakuten.co.jp/search/mall/%E7%94%B7%E6%80%A7%E7%94%A8%E3% 83%96%E3%83%A9%E3%82%B8%E3%83%A3%E3%83%BC/?oid=059 (Retrieved on 2016/04/17). 10 The skirt as a men’s clothing item is not actually something extraordinary in Asia (see, for example, traditional Indian or Indonesian costumes, where men wear a skirt or a skirt-like garment). 11 Photo taken from http://www.japanesestreets.com/reports/639/men-go-for-skirts (Retrieved on 2015/11/20)

165 Accessories are another distinctive element for herbivorous men. Accessories for men are found anywhere in the world, but in the particular case of the Japanese sōshoku danshi we talk about very feminine items, such as big bags, rings, necklaces, bracelets, scarves, etc. Some men are also beginning to walk around with parasols in midsummer to protect their skin from the sun’s rays and the Tobu department store in Tokyo offers a special line of parasols designed for men. A quick look at a popular shopping site reveals that the same items – in this case, a necklace – can be sold both as items for women and items for men.

Another important business is that of cosmetic products for men. Aside from the usual after shaves or deodorants that have already become typical cosmetic products for men all over the world, in Japan we also find items such as lipstick, whitening creams, foundation, eyebrow pencils and so on. Famous companies such as Shiseido, but also other Japanese cosmetic companies have released a number of skin care products such as face wash and lotions and high-priced item like moisturizers and anti-aging cream for men. The development of the cosmetics industry brought about the development of the men-only beauty parlors, which offer services that were originally aimed at women: body hair removal, eyebrow sculpturing, pore-cleaning treatments, manicures, body piercing, skin treatments, make-up classes, etc. The trend is so popular that even travel companies sponsor tours such as the „Transformation into a beautiful man” in Tokyo13. The category of herbivorous men is an undeniable aspect of the present- day Japanese society and it is not yet clear what the effects of their lifestyle will be. Media Shakers, a consulting company that is a subsidiary of Dentsu, the country's

12 Photo taken from http://store.shopping.yahoo.co.jp/2pcs/pe1556.html ((Retrieved on 2015/11/20) 13 http://www.thefreelibrary.com/Shopping%3A+Japanese+men+head+for+the+salon+t o+make+it+the+beautiful...-a060465398 (Retrieved on 2015/11/20)

166 largest advertising agency, estimates that 60 percent of men in their early 20s and at least 42 percent of men aged 23 to 34 consider themselves grass-eating men. Partner Agent, a Japanese dating agency, found in a survey that 61 percent of unmarried men in their 30s identified themselves as herbivorous. Of the 1000 single men in their 20s and 30s polled by Lifenet, a Japanese life-insurance company, 75 percent described themselves as grass-eating men14. Many people worry that the lack of interest in family life and having children will deepen the already very serious problems of the low birthrate and of the aging population that Japan has already been confronting. On the other hand, Japanese companies are worried that herbivorous boys are not the status-conscious consumers that their parents were, which will have a negative effect on the economy. A rather different approach comes however from Rachel Snyder’s study of the concept of masculinity in Japan. Snyder (Snyder 2010) claims that the problems regarding gender roles in contemporary Japan are neither new nor unpredictable, if one takes a closer look at the historical evolution of the idea of masculinity in Japan. She states that before the adoption of Western values, Japan actually favored an inclusive masculinity (as opposed to the Western exclusive masculinity) where gender representation focuses on gender performance, denying a biological determination, as it happens in the West. Therefore, we witness a lack of binaries and the creation of a culture of pluralities. Snyder talks about a „fluid gender” as representative for the Japanese culture, but which was challenged by the pseudo adaptation of Western ideals to the Japanese context. Clearly defined concepts of manliness and masculinity appeared as a result of governmental interference, when the image of Japan as a strong nation was needed. However, when the nationalistic incentives were not needed anymore, since Japan had become a world power, the Japanese returned to their inclusive fluid masculinity. This theory actually supports the view that Mari Fukasawa offered on Japan’s herbivorous men. Fukasawa called this category of men „herbivorous” starting from the idea that in Japan sex is translated as „relationships in flesh”. These men are not interested in flesh, hence the name „herbivorous”, as opposed to „carnivorous”15. This movement away from the carnivorous salary men of the 1980s is interpreted as a return to the Japanese pre-Western masculine ideology. The present-day Japanese society can thus be regarded as including simultaneously two distinct patriarchies: the Western orthodox, exclusive masculinity model and the Japanese pluralistic, inclusive one. The category of herbivorous men is thus a part of the Japanese inclusive masculinity model, which has existed throughout the entire history of Japan.

14 http://www.slate.com/articles/news_and_politics/foreigners/2009/06/the_herbivores _dilemma.html (Retrieved on 2015/11/20) 15 http://business.nikkeibp.co.jp/article/skillup/20061005/111136/?rt=nocnt (Retrieved on 2015/11/20)

167

REFERENCES

Garon, S. 1997. Molding Japanese Minds. The State in Everyday Life. Princeton: Princeton University Press.

Hane, M. 1986. Modern Japan: A Historical Perspective. Boulder: Westview Press. Kuninobu, J.W. 1984. „Women’s Study in Japan”, Women’s Study Int. Forum vol. 7 no. 4/1984, pp. 301-305. Murakami, M. 1978. "Dilemmas of Japanese Professional Women," Social Problems, XXVI Smith, Robert. J. 1987. “Gender Inequality in Contemporary Japan”, Journal of Japanese Studies, vol. 13 no. 1. Snyder, R. 2010. “The Androgyne Patriarchy in Japan. Contemporary Issues in Japanese Gender”, retrieved from http://dspace.uta.edu/handle/10106/5120. Vogel, Ezra F. 1971. Japan's New Middle Class: The Salary Man and His Family in a Tokyo Suburb, Second edition. Berkeley: University of California Press; retrieved from http://ark.cdlib.org/ark:/13030/ft8z09p23r/ Waswo, A. 1996. Modern Japanese Society 1868-1994. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

168 JAPAN’S IMAGE IN THE ROMANIAN MASS-MEDIA IN THE FIRST HALF OF THE 20TH CENTURY

Angela Drăgan

Abstract: In 1975, James Clavell published his book “Shōgun” about an Englishman who shipwrecked on the shores of Edo period Japan. It became a bestseller and it was translated in Romanian, as well, after 11 years in 1988. Just one year before the Revolution of 1989, “Shōgun” became an instant success in an Eastern European country where Communist propaganda strictly controlled the book market. What made Romanians love this book? Set in a country so far away, an island isolated from the rest of the world with strict rules in a rather feudal Japan, the story of the English navigator captured the imagination. Was it because of the love story between him and Mariko? Was it because of the setting of the novel close to how Romanians felt at that time, trapped on their own country? Motivated by the impact that book had on the Romanian readers’ psyche, my colleagues and I analyzed the Romanian-Japanese relationship from several points of view during “Japan: Premodern, Modern and Contemporary” conference held at “Dimitrie Cantemir” Christian University in September 2015. My paper discusses Japan as seen in literary magazines at the turn of the century. Keywords: Romania, Japan, literary magazines

At the turn of the 20th century, both Romania and Japan had already undergone important changes, on the path towards modernization. Starting with the Meiji Restauration in 1868, the control of Japan was returned to the emperor from the Tokugawa shogunate. The Restauration implied not only a political change but it also brought about a major economic and social shift. The country set upon a process of modernization and Westernization. In 1859, two of the Romanian principalities, Moldavia and Wallachia elected Alexandru Ioan Cuza (1820-1873) as their ruler, thus forging a new nation. In 1866, a constitution was written and the name Romania was used for the first time. Cuza started a series of reforms, especially rural ones, in order to modernize Romania. The union did not only bring together two populations that had the same roots and linguistic identity, but it also represented a step forward in building a new and modern nation. Both Japan and Romania were eager to catch up with the advanced nations and to open up to the world. Two countries placed so far on the map proved to be so similar on matters of historical changes, at the turn of the century.

 Lecturer, “Dimitrie Cantemir” Christian University

169 But how did Japan see Romania and how did Romania view Japan, at that time? I and my colleague, Irina Holca-who discusses in the same issue of this journal travel diaries, novels, and monographs that mention Romania and were written by the Japanese authors-cover the same period of time and consider them as counterparts. Both papers were presented at the 3rd International Japanese Studies Conference, entitled Japan: Premodern, Modern and Contemporary. A Return Trip from the East to the West. Learning in, about, and from Japan, held in September 2015 at the “Dimitrie Cantemir” Christian University, in Bucharest, Romania. A good source for establishing the image of Japan among Romanians could be found in newspapers and magazines. They specifically try to give the public information that could be considered interesting and relevant. My paper will focus on cultural magazines as I try to look at Japan from a cultural point of view. Romanians’ image of Japan has centered repeatedly on stereotypes. On one hand, we talk about geisha and samurai, following a traditional perspective, and on the other hand, Japan is seen as a model of civilization and hi-tech. What were Romanians interested in, at the turn of the century? Did these stereotypes exist then as well? Japan started to appear in Romanian media first in newspapers regarding matters of politics, economy and the imperial family and, later, in magazines. Some of the most important pieces of news were those concerning certain conflicts, as the Russo-Japanese War (8 February 1904-5 September 1905) 1 or Japan’s politics in Asia. The victory over the Russian Empire had a deep impact on Japan’s image in the Western world. Especially in Europe, one could hardly believe that an Asian nation managed to overpower Russia. As to magazines, I discuss here literary magazines that published not only literature and poetry, but also ran articles on general issues such as the description of a country, its history, geography, religion and so on. My first question is what would Romanian readers want to find out about Japan, from a cultural magazine? Moreover, what type of information could one find and more importantly what were the sources of the authors of the articles? A source refers in this paper to how the author acquired the information, either directly (he/she traveled to Japan or lived in Japan) 0r indirectly (he/she copied and compiled it from other sources). Next, I will discuss some of the literary magazines where I found a few articles on Japan. But first, I would like to clarify how I found these magazines and why I chose them. Starting with 2009, a digital database called Dacoromanica, later called Biblioteca digitală a Bucureștilor (The Digital Library of Bucharest) was put together as part of a larger European program, Europeana.eu. A large number of Romanian periodicals have been scanned and I chose based on the keyword, “Japonia” (Romanian for Japan).

1 It is important to mention here that one of the novels that Irina Holca discusses in her paper is about the imaginary adventures of Irimel, a young boy who fights in the Russo- Japanese War and is captured by the Japanese. The Adventures of a Young Romanian in Moldova, Russia and Japan, the title of the book, shows that the topic of this particular war may interest Romanian readers.

170 One such literary magazine was Viața românească (Romanian Life). It was published in 1906, in the Moldavian city of Iași, and it continued until 1929. From 1930, it started being issued in Bucharest and it remains one of the literary magazines in the Romanian media until today. In the beginning, it did not treat only literary topics but also scientific ones. The target group was the whole Romanian people. “An educated nation is able to build a real culture and be in harmony with the European ones” 2 , the editors stated in 1906. Japan is mentioned in this magazine in almost each issue, in the press review section. For example, in the January 1908 issue, it covers La Nouvelle Revue from France which mentions agreements signed between France and Japan and Russia and Japan in order to ensure stability in Asia3. It also refers to the conflict between America and Japan, probably in connection with the immigration of Japanese workers to the US. With growing concerns over the large numbers of Japanese entering the US, 1000 per month, a Gentlemen’s Agreement was signed to address this matter. Another foreign magazine quoted was Rivista d’Italia. The Italian author of the article “Japan and the Japanese” describes his two year stay in Japan. G. Limo considers that the weather in Japan does not agree with Italians but he is impressed by the respectful nature of the Japanese people. There is no comment from the Romanian staff but including such an article confirms the interest readers would have on this subject. In the March 1911 issue, Izabela Sadoveanu4 writes a seven page article about Lafcadio Hearn introducing him to the Romanian public. She expresses her admiration for this fellow journalist and she also mentions his stay in Japan and marriage to “one of those bizarre daughters of the country of the Rising Sun”5. Regarding his writing on Japan, Sadoveanu feels that despite the good qualities of the Japanese and their brilliant culture, Hearn does not seem to be close to that country and its people6. The extent of the information contained in Viața românească about Japan is indirect, not having a first-hand source. Nevertheless, although scarce compared to the information published about other countries, it proves the rising interest of Romanians about these topics. Universul literar (The Literary Universe) was a literary supplement of Universul (The Universe) newspaper. It was one of the first Romanian dailies and it was founded in 1884 by Luigi Cazzavillan, an Italian journalist who came to Romania as a war correspondent. It was one of the best sold newspapers in the history of Romanian media. The 1915 issue of this literary supplement published an article called Calea zeilor (The Way of the Gods) which is presented as a letter from Japan: “Japan was dragged, as well in the midst of this bloody and big fight among the European nations. On this occasion, we find it necessary to give a few

2 http://www.viataromaneasca.eu/istoric.html (Retrived on 21st of April, 2016) 3 Viața românească, anul III, pp.157,158,161 4 Izabela Sadoveanu (1870-1941) is the sister-in-law of famous Romanian writer Mihail Sadoveanu. She was a journalist, literary critic, educationist and feminist activist. 5 Viața românească, anul VI, martie, No.3, pp.407-414 6 Viața românească, anul VI, martie, No.3, pp.407-414

171 details about Japan’s religion from a letter especially sent to our magazine”7. The writer of this letter is called Miluță Simion. Up to this moment, I have not been able to identify this journalist so only from this presentation one can assume that he travelled to Japan and this is a first-hand account. The author explains in detail Shintoism and what it means to the Japanese. He establishes that Shintoism can be viewed as a religion even though there are some who believe it is not, as it is different from other religions. For the vast majority of the Japanese, he explains, it is a real cult that they follow with the same fervor as Christians. Moreover, there are a few things that Christianity and Shintoism have in common, Simion asserts. This is the fact that God is seen like a paternal figure “who is everybody’s father and Shintoism worships the father and everybody’s parents. In a word, Christianity worships the first father and the Japanese worship his descendants, as well […] Therefore, Christians considers the man/the human being as being the son of God and many Christians consider it as so, without taking into account that from a religious point of view baptism is the gate to becoming a Christian. Shintoism further asserts without any doubt that man is God’s son, the son of the first ancestor, God, so the son of all the ancestors until the last one, therefore he is entitled to profound respect”8. But the author sees a major difference here: “there is a major question arising between these two religions, is the first father the only one who is entitled to profound respect or do his descendants have the same right?9” He also concludes that “Shintoism cannot understand this major difference that is essential for Christians and Muslims”10 . Simion has managed to capture the central meaning of Christianity and Shintoism and his open approach could prove valuable for deepening the understanding of Japan. He also draws a parallel between Jesus, the son of God, and the Emperor who is considered the son of the gods and their representative on Earth and talks about Shinto sanctuaries and their functions. Another point that the writer touches upon is that of the Christian religion and the state. There are cases of Japanese Christians who refused to give the Emperor the revered esteem believing that the Christian God comes first. The close relation between the image of the Emperor and Shintoism demanded children, for example, to go to these sanctuaries and pay their respects, which comes in conflict with the freedom of religion, Simion comments. Nevertheless, the Japanese government had summoned the representatives of the Buddhist, Shinto and Christian religion for a discussion in order to find a mutual way of understanding religion while showing respect for the state, as well. The author of this article praises the initiative and thinks that if religion and the state can find a common ground “the good morals”11 of a country can progress. In 1918, Calendarul nostru (Our Calendar)-a magazine- was published in Bârlad, in the Northern part of what remained of Romania at that time. It seems

7 Universul literar, January, 1915, anul XXXII, no.4, pp.5 and 6 8 idem 9 idem 10 idem 11 idem

172 to be a one issue magazine and it is strongly linked to the First World War. In 1917, Romania, one of the countries fighting in this war was at a point of deep disappointment and depression. Romanians believed that they could not win the war and there was a huge need for encouragement and moral support12. Pamfil Șeicaru (1894-1980), a well-known Romanian journalist, came up with the idea of putting together a whole range of texts from famous Romanian poets like Mihail Eminescu (1850-1889) to contemporary writers like Alexandru Vlahuță (1858- 1919) that could show the broad public that they are still a great country which should keep fighting13. One of the most surprising texts included in Calendarul nostru is the famous Japanese words of wisdom from a poem14. They are legendarily attributed to Oda Nobunaga (1534-1582)15, Toyotomi Hideyoshi (1536-1598)16 and Tokugawa Ieyasu (1543-1616)17 and refer to winning strategies. The reference was suitable to the war state that Romania was in and it might have served as an example of how to fight a war. Tokugawa Ieyasu is supposed to have said: “If the cuckoo doesn’t sing, wait for it” as he was known for his cautious personality, then Toyotomi Hideyoshi is thought to have said “If the cuckoo doesn’t sing, make it sing” as he was rather a negotiator and then Oda Nobunaga is supposed to have said: “If the cuckoo does not sing, kill it” as he is known as the most violent of the three. Another magazine that I would like to consider is Albina (The Bee), which functioned as an almanac. Its main idea was to spread information to a very wide section of the public; therefore in this case culture is understood in a broader sense. It was founded by Spiru Haret (1851-1912) and the first issue appeared in august 1897. He served three terms as minister of education and his educational reforms transformed Romania. This magazine, a weekly published each Sunday represented a part of his plan to modernize Romania. Spiru Haret considered that a solid general culture is what Romanian people lacked and publishing several magazines and newspapers common Romanians could afford, was part of the plan18. Japan is present in a series of articles on geography, education, government, army, and so on. As early as 1900, in the 6-13 August issue there is a general presentation of Japan as the author considers “that this country is an active force along with other European states in keeping peace in China and therefore we think that it would be really useful for our readers to know more about it”19. Romanians’ interest in Japan was obviously triggered by Japan’s

12 Teodoraşcu, Fănel Un manifest gazetăresc – Calendarul nostru pe 1918 in Revista Hiperboreea 2015/03, pp.87 13 Idem, pp.88 14 Calendarul nostru pe 1918, 1918, pp.152 15 Daimyō, Momoyama period (1568-1600) 16 Daimyō, Momoyama period (1568-1600) 17 Shogun, Edo period (1600-1868) 18 Botez Elvira, ”Albina lui Haret” in Studii și Comunicari. Academia Română, 2012, no.4, pp. 209 19 “Albina”, 1900, no.45-46, pp. 1207

173 active role in Asia and the Japanese struggles made it one of the countries worth mentioning by a country like Romania, which was undergoing the same process. In the last part of my paper, I will discuss the literary magazine Luceafărul (The Morning Star). It was published from 1902 to 1925, twice a month. It target group were Romanians living in Transylvania, a region of Romania, which at the time was part of the Habsburg Empire. The magazine was aimed at supporting national culture and fought for national unity. It published prose and poetry written by Romanians living in Transylvania but also in Romania. It also had articles on literary history, history, art, reviews and literary translations. In 1904, issue 14-16 consisted of seven articles on Japan. Even the cover of the magazine is depicts a photo of a few Japanese women dressed in yukata, in a field of flowers (figure 1).

Figure1 Luceafărul (cover, 1904, no. 14-16) Thus, it can be considered a number dedicated to Japan. Another important point in this issue is the source of the articles. The opening article entitled Yokohama Tochio is on Yokohama and Tokyo and it was written by a woman Otilia de Cozmuța and the numerous pictures (figure 2) featured belong to her, as well. She also signs another article on Japanese art: Despre arta japonezilor (“On the Art of the Japanese people”).

174 Figure 2 Luceafărul (Mrs Cozmuta in Japanese costume, 1904, no. 14-16)

As we find out in the same issue, Luceafărul’s staff thanks the author of these two articles and describes her as “a wonderful woman who had the moral courage to overcome any obstacle in order to follow her artistic urges and her passion for faraway places”20. But who was this brave woman? She was born in 1873 in Homorod, a village from Satu-Mare county and part, at that time of the Habsburg Empire. Her father was a priest of the Romanian Greek-Catholic Church and an important member of his community as an educator. She went to school in Carei and there she met Kaffka Margit21(1880-1918) and they became friends. After that she continued her studies at the Academy of Fine Arts in Munich. At only 17 years old she married Cornel Cosmuța22. They moved to Budapest and then to Sarajevo, in Bosnia, where he was appointed as president of the Post Office23. In 1892, her son, Cornel, was born but shortly afterwards she left for Vienna and then for Munich, again. In 1901, she started a long voyage to Asia which lasted almost a year, and on the trip she visited China and Japan, where she made a longer stop in Yokohama and Tokyo. The article in Luceafărul talks about her stay in these two cities so the readers get a first-hand insight into the Japanese world. She begins by describing Yokohama as a sea-port town and writes about its population and importance. She is somehow disappointed by the fact that places that came in contact with the European civilization lost their local charm. The same is mentioned regarding Tokyo. She looks for what the city has to offer and she is interested in walking the

20 Luceafarul, 1904, No.14-16, pp.265 21 Kaffka Margit (1880-1918) was one of the most important female Hungarian writers 22 The family name is spelled both ways Cosmuța and Cozmuța 23 http://www.satu-mare.ro/fisiere/pagini_fisiere/Eroii_Neamului_nr14.pdf pg.49

175 streets, wandering the small alleys, looking at shops or children playing. She likes the interior of the houses with its minimal furnishing, its kakemono24 hanging on the walls and shibachi. The only thing that she negatively comments on is: “nobody seems to seriously think of a better heating system”25. The second article she writes is on Japanese art. She herself was an artist26 and she is known for introducing the famous Romanian artist Brâncuși (1876- 1957) to Rodin. She discusses Japanese’ aesthetic sense and Japanese people’s different perception of art, as they do not draw upon nature but on their memory. She also mentions Hokusai (1760-1849), one of the greatest Japanese artists, suibokuga27, temple statues, ceramics and Japanese gardens. As she is an artist her opinions on Japanese art are correct, for example she points out their sense for decoration from the very beginning. Her account is direct, not merely descriptive, but it is also explanatory and insightful. Otilia de Cozmuța draws one of the most vivid images of Japan in the magazines that I have studied so far, her trip being a success which the Romanian public benefitted from. The rest of the articles are not written by her and they are not first-hand descriptions of Japan: Japonia: informațiuni asupra țării și poporului (“Japan, information on the country and its people”), offering general info on the country, Din poeții japonezi (“Japanese poets”), featuring a few poetry translations, Pressa japoneză (“Japanese press”), a historical account of the media in Japan. The last two articles are not too long but short ones, which talk about marriage in Japan and give statistics on the marriage age of the Japanese men and the other one, on the assignment of names in Japan. In conclusion, to answer the questions asked at the beginning of my paper, first, the topics approached by Romanian cultural magazines at the turn of the century cover a broad array of topics but predictably, they focus on the description of Japan and its people. Secondly, most articles do not have a direct source, something not unusual at that time, considering Romania’s difficult financial situation and movement restriction. As for stereotypes, samurais and geishas do not seem to be of special interest for Romanian readers at this early stage, but in my opinion, the tone of the articles lead me believe that Japan was already seen as a model to the civilized world.

REFERENCES:

Botez, Elvira:<> lui Haret in Studii și Comunicari. Academia Română, 2012, no.4, pp:207-218

24 Scroll painting 25 Luceafarul, 1904, No.14-16, pp.259 26 After the long voyage, she moved to Paris where she opened a literary salon. She studied sculpture with Bourdelle and in 1932, she received the “Le Blanc” prize from the French Academy for her literary work “la visage de Bourdelle”. 27 Monochrome ink painting

176 Mihăilă, Ramona: (In)Visible European Connecting Channels: Mapping Nineteenth Century Women’s Writings in Journal of Research in Gender Studies, Volume 2(1), 2012, pp:141–151 Mitrașcă, Marcel: Japan in Romanian Books before World War Two in Acta Slavica Iaponica, 23, 2006 pp:241-247 Teodorașcu, Fănel: Un manifest gazetăresc –Calendarul nostru pe 1918 in Revista Hiperboreea, 13,2015, pp:82-95

Magazines: Albina. Revistă Enciclopedică populară. Apare în fie-care duminică, Anul III, 6- 13 august 1900, nr.45-46, retrived on 23rd of April 2016 Calendarul nostru pe 1918, 1918, Bârlad, Tipografia C.D. Lupașcu, retrived on 23rd of April 2016 Luceafărul, Anul III, 15 august 1904, No.14-16, 21st of March, 2016 Viața românească, Anul IV, August no.8, 1909, retrieved 19th of April 2016 Viața românească, Anul VI, Martie no. 3, 1911, retrieved 19th of April 2016

Websites: http://neww.huygens.knaw.nl/authors/show/5466, retrieved on the 16th of April 2016 http://www.britannica.com/ , retrieved on 16th of April, 2016 http://www.satu-mare.ro/fisiere/pagini_fisiere/Eroii_Neamului_nr14.pdf pg.49, retrieved on 21th of March, 2016 http://www.buletindecarei.ro/2011/04/familia-marchis-din-carei-p-ii.html , retrieved on 21th of March, 2016 http://www.viataromaneasca.eu/istoric.html , retrieved on 21th of April, 2016 http://www.history.com/topics/gentlemens-agreement, retrieved on 22nd of April, 2016 http://revistahiperboreea.ro/wp-content/uploads/2015/03/Fanel-Teodorascu- UN-MANIFEST-GAZET%C4%82RESC-CALENDARUL-NOSTRU-PE- 1918.pdf, 23rd of April, 2016

177 ROMANIA AND JAPAN: REAL AND IMAGINARY ENCOUNTERS AT THE TURN OF THE 20TH CENTURY

Irina Holca

Abstract: The first part of this paper will focus on some aspects described by Japanese men of letters in their writings (the autobiography of Tokutomi Sohō, who visited Europe in 1896; his brother, Roka’s travel diary, written in 1906; and the references to Queen Elisabeta of Romania from Mori Ōgai’s essay, Taikan Shijin, 1914). It will attempt to point out the way Romania was perceived by Japan at the turn of the 20th century, in light of the former’s position in Europe and the latter’s military interests. This perspective will be complemented by an analysis of Japan’s image, created and consumed in Romania around the same time. Here, I will consider the open lectures about Japan held in various locations, as well as the travel account of businessman Bazil Assan (1899) and the imaginary adventures of the Romanian youth who takes part in the Russo-Japanese War described in Sofia Nădejde’s novel Irimel (1905). Lastly I will also briefly discuss Eugen Lovinescu’s ideas about modernisation, westernisation and “form without content” in Romania and Japan. The goal of this paper is to trace the changes undergone by the two countries’ representations in each other’s imagination, analysing their underlying reasons and implications. Keywords: Romania, Japan, Russo-Japanese War, real and imagined encounters

This paper, focusing on travel diaries, novels, and monographs mentioning Romania and written by Japanese, as well as their counterparts written by Romanians and mentioning Japan, complements that of my colleague, Angela Drăgan, included in the same issue of this journal, and dealing with the image of Japan in Romanian magazines. They both cover roughly the same period of time, the late 1880s to the mid-1920s, and were presented at the 3rd International Japanese Studies Conference, entitled Japan: Premodern, Modern and Contemporary. A Return Trip from the East to the West. Learning in, about, and from Japan, held in September 2015 at “Dimitrie Cantemir” Christian University, Bucharest, Romania. My paper is part of a bigger project, aiming to shed light on the way Japan has been perceived, imagined and consumed in Romania since pre-modern times and until today; several other papers from the same project were given at the above-mentioned conference, complementing each other by analysing the topic at hand from a variety of viewpoints, and utilising varied methodologies.

 Senior lecturer, Institute for Research in Humanities, Kyoto University

178 As a researcher of Japanese modern literature and culture, I am more at home with Japanese sources and realities from a century ago than with those of Romania during the same period of time. Looking at the way my native and adoptive cultures were becoming aware of themselves and of each other around the turn of the 20th century was a great journey of discovery, whose fruits I hope to share in my current paper.

Today, for many people, Romania is the country of Dracula; tourists visit Bran Castle and buy Vlad the Impaler1 goods, as mementos of the places and people Bram Stoker’s vampire fantasy Dracula (1897) was modelled after. Back in the late 1890s, a hic sunt leones place at the gates of the Orient that had only recently and timidly started its journey towards becoming a modern state, Romania still left a lot to the imagination, and historical truth and myth were hard to distinguish—which made this part of Europe the perfect setting for a vampire story, i.e., a story about an incomprehensible and therefore terrifying Other.

Later, in the 20th century, new national myths were built, and Romania was made famous, for example, by the perfect grade of gymnast Nadia Comăneci at the 1976 Olympics, or by great football players such as Gheorghe Hagi; it was also made notorious by Nicolae and Elena Ceaușescu, the cruel dictator and his even crueller wife, whose execution made the headlines all over the world in December 1989, and is regretted by some of the Romanian older generation even today. But what was known in Japan about Romania, after the dark Middle Ages, and before the (even darker, some may say) communist times?

Journalist, essayist and historian Tokutomi Sohō 2 , one of the famous Japanese who mentions Romania in his writings, started his journey to Europe with a double purpose: to know the world, and make Japan known to the world. Here is what he writes in Sohō Jiden (『蘇峰自伝』[Sohō’s Autobiography], 1896):

The world doesn’t know Japan yet, and Japan doesn’t know the world; while being part of the world, Japan is separated from it (…) To introduce Japan to the world and the world to Japan, this magazine I’m publishing, ‘Far East’ is not sufficient. I must go and see the world with my own eyes. (p.319)

1 Vlad Țepeș, 1431-1477, Prince of Wallachia 2 1863-1957. General editor of news magazine Kokumin no tomo (Citizen’s Friend), 1887- 1898; initially a champion of Japan’s modernisation and an advocate of the adoption of western models, he was too liberal for the tastes of the Japanese government. After the Sino- and Russo-Japanese Wars his views became more in line with the official discourse, and his news magazines and newspapers became governmental mouthpieces. He was awarded the Order of Culture by the Japanese government in 1943.

179 We met the famous King Carol, and, what’s more, we even met his wife, known to the entire literary world of Europe under the pseudonym of Carmen Sylva. (…)

At that time Romania was trying to expand its army more than befitted such a small country; its main enemy was the great Russia. (…) Back then, both Romania’s and Japan’s efforts must have looked like little more than an ant trying to dig through a mountain; not even together would they have been able to impress the Russians! But the ant too has gall, so this feeling of self-importance must have been good for the two little countries. (pp.322-323)3

During his visit, he met Romania’s King Carol4 and Queen Elisabeta5, and was impressed by Carmen Sylva’s Europe-wide fame and artistic activities. He saw Romania and Japan as similar, and opposed them to Russia, talking about the two small countries’ militarisation as little more than the effort of ants against a huge mountain. It should be mentioned here that, as a Russian Protectorate, the Romanian army had fought alongside the Russians in 1877-78, in the Russo- Turkish War (which, for the Romanians, was also an independence war), and had greatly contributed to the Russian victory. Nevertheless, the post-war treaties had left the Romanian requests unanswered, and turned Russia from an ally into an enemy.

When Sohō’s younger brother, Tokutomi Roka6, visits Romania in his European and Asian tour 10 years later, he writes about the trip in Junrei Kikō (『順礼紀行』[Notes from My Pilgrimage], 1906). Romania is mentioned in the chapter about the Balkan region:

Everyone was curious to see what kind of people these Japanese, who had rebuked the Turks and defeated the Russians, were. (…) Outside the window, someone was shouting: “Tōgō, Tōgō”. Apparently Tōgō is for them another word for “Japanese”. (…) As in Bulgaria, Japanese people

3 All translations from Japanese and Romanian, unless otherwise stated, are mine (Irina Holca). 4 Prince Karl of Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen/ Carol I (1839-1914) was the Ruling Prince of the United Romanian Principalities from 1866; he proclaimed the country’s independence from Ottoman suzerainty after the Russo-Turkish War, in 1878, and became the first king of Romania in 1881. He married Elisabeth of Wied in Neuwied on 15 November 1869. They only had one daughter, Maria, who died at the age of three. He ruled Romania until 1914. 5 Pauline Elisabeth Ottilie Luise zu Wied (1843-1916) was the Queen Consort of Romania (wife of Carol I) between 1869 and 1914. In the literary salons of Europe she was known as Carmen Sylva, poet, artist, dreamer, and idealist. She is also remembered for her contributions as a nurse for wounded soldiers, feminist, and republican. 6 1868-1927. Real name Tokutomi Kenjirō. Novelist. His most famous and most translated work is The Cuckoo (『不如帰』1898-1899).

180 are rare in Romania, so everywhere I went cute little boys and girls ran to meet our train, peeking inside our windows. (…) In the evening, when we got to Bucharest, it was bright as day; the World Exposition was just being held (…) Romania is a small country, but its people seem smart and serious. There were lights [all over the place], trams, and paved roads lined with trees; the buildings were beautiful even at night. One can indeed expect no less from the capital of the country that has as its queen the famous Carmen Sylva. (p. 166)

He, too, mentions the crowned poet Carmen Sylva; nevertheless, by then, Japan’s position in the world had changed, thanks to the Japanese victory in the Russo-Japanese War, and a comparison between the two countries’ military efforts was no longer appropriate. Roka notices on the one hand that general Tōgō’s name had become another word for “Japanese” in Europe, but on the other hand, that Japanese are rare in this part of the world; he also makes general observations about Bucharest, a bright and modern city, and then about Galați, where he stays overnight, on his way to Russia, which, along with the famous cities of Christianity (Nazareth, Jerusalem, etc), is the true aim of his trip, a second spiritual home, as he confesses7.

Another Japanese traveller to Europe who writes about Carmen Sylva is the novelist and military doctor Mori Ōgai8; without having actually visited the country, he bases his observations on information acquired from German sources. Ōgai loosely plays on a similarity between the Romanian queen’s artistic inclinations and the Japanese tradition according to which emperors and empresses were also poets, and puts together his random thoughts about the Meiji Emperor, General Nogi and Queen Elisabeta in the essay ‘The Crowned Poets’ (Taikan Shijin「戴冠詩人」, 1914) which accompanies a collection of imperial poems put together by Sasaki Nobutsuna9.

In the next part of my paper, I will take a look at a few of the medium length to long works on Japan, or mentioning Japan, published between the late 1890s and the early 1920s (See Table 1 for works consulted by this author; it includes conferences, which were usually published as booklets, too, as well as some later examples from the 1930s. A more detailed list with further / different titles can be found in Marcel Mitrașcă, 2006). Before that, let me just mention that, alongside such “introductions” to Japan, the Romanian public could also come in contact with the culture via translations. Tokutomi Roka’s Hototogisu

7 He writes, after leaving Galați: Entering Russia, the one I knew from the writings of Gogol, Turgenev, Tolstoy, Gorki, and Chekhov, I felt as if I was returning home. (p.168) 8 1862-1922. Real name Mori Rintarō. One of the foremost men of letters of Japan’s modern age. He translated extensively poetry and prose (esp. Goethe, Schiller, Ibsen, Hans Christian Andersen, and Hauptmann), and wrote novels and short stories, of which the most famous are “The Dancing Girl” (Maihime, 『舞姫』1890), Vita Sexualis (『ヰタ・セクスアリス』1909) , The Wild Geese (Gan 『雁』, 1911–13). 9 佐々木信綱、『明治天皇御製謹注やまと心』(1914)

181 (『不如帰』) is one of the earliest examples; it was translated from French as “Între iubire și moarte” (Between Love and Death), the same year that the author himself traveled to Romania. In the 1920s, Romanian translations of English works about Japanese culture by Okakura Kakuzō (The Book of Tea, translated by Emil Bucuță as “Cartea ceaiului” in 1925) and Nitobe Inazō (Bushidō, or the Japanese Soul, translated by Constant Georgescu, in 1927) were also available.

Table 1: Works in Romanian about Japan or mentioning Japan, 1890s- 1930s

Author Title Year Genre / type G. Mihăilescu From the Country of the Rising Sun to 1892 Public conference the Country of the Dollar Constantin Georgescu Overview of Romania and Japan 1894 Public conference Bazil Assan A Trip around the World 1899 Public conference & booklet; travel account G.T. Buzoianu Geographical Notes about the War in 1904 Historical work the Far East Nicolae Iorga The War in the far East: China, Japan, 1904 Historical work Asian Russia Mihail Negreanu A Few Words about the Japanese 1905, Public conference People 1907 & booklet Mihail Gașpar Japan 1905 Introductory booklet Ion Manolescu The Russo-Japanese War 1907 Historical work Eugene Relgis The Rising Sun: Stories, Legends& 1918 Collection of Notes from Japan essays Mihail Stăncescu Japan 1925 Introductory booklet Eugen Lovinescu The History of Modern Romanian 1924- Intellectual Civilisation (ch. XXI of vol. III) 1926 history book Ioan Simionescu Japan, Country of Wonders 1932 Introductory booklet Voicu Nițescu Short Layover in Japan 1938 Travel book Ana Stănică The World is Big and Wide 1939 Travel book

In the numerous conferences held all over Romania and introducing Japan to the public at the end of the 19th century, the similarities between the two countries are often mentioned. Most authors argue, like Mihăilescu in his From the Country of the Rising Sun to the Country of the Dollar (1892), that the two countries have similar historical destinies, and face similar challenges, i.e., “the Europeanisation of Japan and the Americanisation of Europe”; others, such as Georgescu in Overview of Romania and Japan (1894), think that the latter “did not know the western civilisation until 1868, but today it is already one of the civilised states of the world”, while the former is stagnating, “even though it is closer to the fountain of modern civilisation, and is related to the foremost civilised states of today”; he sees the superior artistic and religious spirit of the

182 Japanese as the reason behind this progress. He also mentions the Japanese women (their clothes, hairstyles, relationship with children, etc) and pays special attention to Japanese realism in the arts: “the Japanese painter depicts nature as he sees it, trying not to add any personal features, and not to reflect his own individuality in his paintings.” Similar descriptions and observations are made in many of the conferences and booklets of the time, which were commonly based on the same sources, too.

A different type of book, in form, sources, perspective, and content, is Bazil Assan’s travel diary A Trip around the World (1899); he actually writes based on personal experience, not like many of his predecessors, who were only recycling information from foreign books. As a businessman, Assan stresses the necessity of establishing diplomatic and trade relations between the two countries, and of attracting Japanese goods to Europe via Romanian ports.

At the same time, he also writes extensively and insightfully about the country’s culture, the longest chapter being that about kabuki, which he considers “very realistic.” He concludes the account of his experiences with a chapter on Japan’s warrior culture and militarism, in which he quotes the Japanese discourse of the time from a Japanese newspaper (title unmentioned in the text):

We must develop this empire of ours, the oldest in the world, whose history spans thousands of years. We, the people of this empire are not afraid of foreigners, for we have two civilisations at hand: theirs, which we are using to defeat them, and ours, which they can’t understand, and will never be able to take away from us. Lead by Japan, the 500 million Asians will come together as an invincible force. (pp.48-49)

In the context of Japan’s growing political, economical and military prowess, he discusses the possibility of a Russo-Japanese conflict, and the position Romania should take in the event of war. He reiterates the necessity of establishing diplomatic ties with Japan, arguing that this will help Romania “ensure its position alongside the great powers, keep up-to-date with the latest developments in the Far East, and profit, as she is historically entitled, from the situation.” (p.51)

Japanese education and discipline, as well as the equation between love for family and devotion for the emperor is mentioned in most writings with admiration, as a lesson the Romanians should learn (in Mihail Negreanu’s A Few Words about the Japanese People, 1905, for example).

On the other hand, after the Russo-Japanese and First World War, even though the two countries are still seen as similar, they no longer share the same historical destiny. This is what Stăncescu writes in his booklet Japan, in 1925:

The land of Dacia Felix [Romania] is as beautiful and rich as the land of the Yamato; the Romanian people is as hardworking and patient, as pure-hearted as the Japanese people—the latter, considered until

183 recently of an inferior yellow race has excellently changed its bad name into worldwide fame. (…)

I am convinced that the Romanian people, through their firm belief — bigoted, even—in the importance of their country, through dedicated solidarity and sacrifice, through nurturing their inborn qualities, will one day raise Romania to the same status in the Neo-Romanic world that the Japanese raised Nippon in the Asian world. (unnumbered pages, in ‘Foreword’)

Here, the negative aspects of Romania are contrasted with Japan’s impressive evolution, in the hope that the Japanese example will be followed by the Romanian people, who is, at its core, “as hardworking and patient, as pure- hearted as the Japanese people”.

Next, let me discuss a different category of writing, i.e., fiction, and the way Japan is represented therein. One of the few, or maybe even the only, fictional work dealing with Japan in this period is Sofia Nădejde’s novel Irimel: The Adventures of a Young Romanian in Moldova, Russia and Japan10. The Bildungsroman Irimel also stands out among Sofia Nădejde11’s other works, with its choice of background and setting for the plot.

To briefly sum up the novel: the only son of a Romanian boyar, Irimel is kidnapped by an old gypsy woman during a fair; he travels with her caravan across Moldova, then towards Russia, experiencing cold, dirt and hunger. One day the gypsy caravan goes away while Irimel is out begging in a Russian village, and he is adopted by a childless ironsmith’s family, who raises him like their own and puts him through school. Irimel becomes a mechanic; he is drafted in the Russian army and sent to China, to the Russo-Japanese War front, from where he recounts his experiences in the letters he sends to his Russian parents. He is captured by the Japanese at the end of the war, and, while in Japan, he meets some Moldovan soldiers who help him locate his birth parents. He is reunited with them, and later with his Russian adoptive parents, too.

Irimel observes and writes back to his Russian parents about the war as follows:

In Samara they received some postcards; in them, the Japanese looked tiny, and rode horses that were only skin and bones. One Russian soldier could spear ten at a time! Many of Irimel’s comrades couldn’t read, so they laughed at the pictures, and believed everything they were told.

10 Published in installments in the magazine Comoara Tinerimii in 1905; republished as a book in 1917. 11 1856-1946; one of Romania’s foremost feminists and socialists, a champion of the emancipation of workers, women and peasants; supporter of “poporanism”, a cultural and literary trend that lay special emphasis on preserving national values and traditions. She wrote essays, but also short stories about the proletariat and about women.

184 Irimel had studied about the Japanese in school. He knew there were almost 47 million of them, that they had schools, an army, factories, a very organised government; he knew they were educated and proud. He tried to tell some of his fellow soldiers what he knew, but they almost beat him up, accusing him of siding with the enemy; the illustrations were from the Tsar, so they had to be true! (p.124)

As a learned young man, Irimel is somewhat immune to the Russian war propaganda, which is depicting the Japanese as tiny and weak, and riding horses that are only skin and bones. Unfortunately, his illiterate comrades believe everything they see in the satirical (and racist) war postcards they receive from their superiors, and threaten to beat Irimel if he continues to speak and act like a traitor. (Images of small Japanese and gigantic Russians were very common in the so-called war lubok (in Russian), such as the one reproduced below in Figure 1.)

Figure 1. Russian war propaganda postcard (lubok) used in the Russo- Japanese War. A Gulliver-like Russian is running towards Japan from the

185 continent, wreaking havoc in his path, destroying Lilliputan Japanese ships and capturing tens of Japanese soldiers with his bare hands.

The Romanian Irimel, from his privileged position as an “outsider”, observes everything around him, and describes to his parents the situation on the front. He marvels at the capacity of his fellow soldiers to drink, smoke and party, but ascribes this dissipation to their fear of death. His own attitude towards the Japanese is shaped in part by the war propaganda about the enemy: he calls them “accursed pagans”, “yellow devils”, and likens them to “a wolf pack”. Nevertheless, he is also flexible enough to allow his mind to change according to his direct observations, and duly notes that the Japanese are disciplined, brave, stand by each other and, as they confess themselves, love their country like a mother loves her child:

One of them spoke Russian, so I asked:

“How come you are all so eager to die?”

“How? But wouldn’t a mother die for her child? The same way, we would gladly die for our people, for Dai Nippon (Great Japan), the country where all our souls live, just like a mother’s soul lives through her baby.”

It’s hard to fight people like these! If it’s true that they love their country like a mother loves her child, we’re hopeless! (p.146)

After he is taken prisoner by the Japanese, at the end of the war, Irimel discovers the extent of the lies spread by Russian propaganda, and is even more enthralled by the modern Japanese civilisation and the Japanese spirit. In one of the last letters he sends to his parents, after experiencing life in the Japanese prisoner camp, he writes:

Don’t believe what they say about the Japanese, that they are savages. No, they are much more civilised than we are. That’s why they defeated us. (…) Everything you know from the magazines is false, but one thing is certain: in this war, we are not in the right. As Father was saying, the Russians are looking for trouble, fighting an unknown people who isn’t hurting us in any way. (…) When emperors start looking for trouble, they send their people to war. (…) The people in Petersburg knew nothing of the bravery of the Japanese, or about their fighting skills, or their weapons. (pp.148- 149)

Although the novel’s message is not completely transparent, the second half of Irimel can be read as a criticism of the war itself, but also of the ruling classes; it incriminates the sometimes lethal misconceptions propagated by war propaganda, while at the same time advocating for understanding among different peoples (the Romanians, the Russians, the Japanese) as well as ethnic groups (the gypsies).

186 Summing up, the image the two countries had about themselves and each other changes, as was expected, before and after the Russo-Japanese War. Especially in Romanian writings Japan is described, in the beginning, as a potential Oriental twin. Nevertheless, after the turn of the century, Japan moves gradually further away from the image of a similar other, as it engages on a historical trajectory that Romania can only dream of, and is turned into a model, or a potential future image for the small European country.

We can see this, for example, in Eugen Lovinescu’s The History of Modern Romanian Civilisation (1924-26). In the third volume of his opus, Lovinescu, famous Romanian literary critic, states:

The transformation of Japan, much faster than ours, took place according to the same principles of synchronicity to contemporary life that govern all peoples endowed with intellectual abilities, therefore essentially progressive. In Japan, the results of this process were obvious for the entire world; at the same time, they encountered within the country an organic traditionalism and a national soul thousands of years old. The difference between form and content, between culture and civilisation is much greater than in our case; (…) nevertheless, we have no doubt that, as in our case, the fusion of form and content is only a matter of time. (p.158)

In a nutshell, Lovinescu uses Japan’s transformation after the Restoration, its successful fusion of form and content, tradition and modernity, culture and civilisation, to sketch a possible outcome of Romania’s own struggles to modernise itself. The theory of “form without content” had been put forth by Romanian literary critic and essayist Titu Maiorescu in 1868; it referred to westernisation as a series of superficial and mechanical changes, and criticised the mindless imitation of western culture(s), with its lack of firm basis and authentic content. Maiorescu also spoke against admiring the “lustre” of civilisation without taking the time to understand its deeper meanings, mechanisms, and the long process that engendered it.

His stand bears a striking resemblance to Natsume Sōseki’s ideas about Japan’s superficial modernisation/ westernisation. Sōseki states, in his ‘Civilization of Modern-Day Japan’ (『現代日本の開化』1911):

Simply stated, Western civilization (that is, civilization in general) is internally motivated, whereas Japan’s civilization is externally motivated. Something that is “internally motivated” develops naturally from within, as a flower opens, the bursting of the bud followed by the turning outward of the petals. Something is “externally motivated” when it is forced to assume a certain form as the result of pressure applied from the outside. (p. 272)

There are those who gloat over this civilization of ours as if it were internally motivated, but they are wrong. They may think that they represent the height of fashion, but they are wrong. They are false and shallow, like boys

187 who make a great show of enjoying cigarettes before they even know what tobacco tastes like. (…) This tells us that the civilization of modern-day Japan is superficial: it just skims the surface. (p.279)12

While Maiorescu, like Sōseki, had criticised the superficial imitation of western models, and advocated for Romania’s return to its traditional roots and values, Lovinescu anticipates that, in time, the unsynchronised form and content will eventually fuse to give birth to a modern Romanian culture, just as it had happened in Japan’s case. Here again we have Japan as an example Romania should follow, a desirable and possible future image. What underlies the apparent naturalness of this juxtaposition of Japan and Romania— otherwise culturally very different and geographically distant countries— is the position they held in the world, and the way they represented and constructed their relationship at the turn of the 20th century, i.e., focusing on the similarities between two small national entities on the verge of modernisation, forced to carefully choose their allegiances vis-à-vis the great powers of the time. As a result of this imagined kinship, it seemed plausible for Romania to continue looking up to Japan as a possible “Oriental sibling”, and not an absolute “Oriental other”, even later, when their historical and political destinies made the two nations follow divergent paths, with Japan making its way towards becoming a world empire and later an economical power, while Romania remained forever a “minor” nation, little known, and even less understood.

My analysis stops here, for now, but I am hoping to have a chance to look further, especially into the way Romanian writers continued to use Japan as the setting for their works, and the inspiration they sought there shortly before, during, and after the Second World War. From the other end of the equation, it does appear that, after a short moment when the Japanese too felt a certain closeness and similarity with Romania, the interest eventually faded, or it was “westernised”, i.e., the way the Japanese public perceives Romania nowadays is not much different from the western gaze that usually exoticises “the land of Dracula”.

Optimistic scholars and Japan enthusiasts continued (and are tempted to do so even today) to come up with correspondences between Dacia Felix and Yamato: they talked about the Japanese love of nature and the Romanians being “brothers with the forest”; they mentioned the Japanese makura-kotoba as similar to the formulaic beginnings of Romanian folk songs 13 ; some skillful rhetoricians even used the argument of the two countries’ insularity 14

12 ”Civilization of Modern-Day Japan” (tr. Edwin McClellan). 13 Mihail Stăncescu, in his monograph “Japonia” [Japan] (1925) states that pillow phrases (makura-kotoba, set phrases used at the beginning of waka poetry in combination with certain words) are similar to formulae such as “Floricică floare-n creangă”, or “Bunioară într-un cântec”, et al, used at the beginning of the Romanian doină (folk song). 14 Constantin Sorescu, in the ‘Introduction’ to his “Japonia, o continuă revelație: reprezentări românești” [Japan, an ongoing revelation: Romanian representations]

188 (geographical in Japan’s case, metaphorical, i.e., “a Latin island in a sea of Slavic peoples” in Romania’s case). Nevertheless, despite the two countries’ real and imagined similarities, in size, modern history, as well as positioning against world powers, and in spite of all the often forced correspondences, Romania and Japan remain today fifteen hours and more than fifty years apart.

Superficial and insufficient as it might be, my analysis of the encounters between Japan and Romania at the turn of the 20th century has turned up some unexpected results—for me, at least; especially the way Romania perceived Japan, and shaped its own image mirroring this distant ‘other’, has shed, I hope, a shaft of light onto the role imagination plays in a country’s modernisation process.

REFERENCES:

Assan, Bazil: “Călătorie împrejurul pământului” [A Trip around the World], conference held at the Romanian Geographical Society, Bucharest, March 6th, 1899. Published as booklet same year. Devesel, Anamaria: ‘Sofia Nădejde. A nineteenth-century Romanian Social feminist’, master’s thesis, submitted to the Department of Gender Studies of the Central European University (Budapest, Hungary), 2012. Hașu-Bălan, Mihaela: ‘Major Directions in the Reception of the Japanese Spirit in the Romanian Literary and Publicistic Realm between 1920-2010’, PhD thesis submitted to the Faculty of Letters, Babeș-Bolyai University (Cluj, Romania). Georgescu, Constantin: “Priviri generale asupra României și Japoniei” [Overview of Romania and Japan]; conference held at Athenee Buzău, March 11, 1894. Lovinescu, Eugen: “Istoria civilizației române moderne” [The History of Modern Romanian Civilisation], 1924-26. Mihăilescu, G.: “Din Țara Soarelui Răsare în Țara Dolarului” [From the Country of the Rising Sun to the Country of the Dollar], conference held at Athenee Galați, February 6, 1892. Mitrașcă, Marcel: ‘Japan in Romanian Books before World War Two’, in Acta Slavica Iaponica, 23: 241-247, 2006. Mori, Ōgai「戴冠詩人」[The Crowned Poets], in 佐々木信綱 (Sasaki Nobutsuna) 『明治天皇御製謹注やまと心』, 1914. Natsume, Sōseki: 『現代日本の開化』1911/ ‘Civilization of Modern-Day Japan’, in Kokoro and Selected Essays, 1992, tr. by Edwin McClellan. Nădejde, Sofia: “Irimel: Aventurile unui tânăr român în Moldova, Rusia și Japonia” [Irimel: The Adventures of a Young Romanian in Moldova, Russia and Japan], 1905, 1917 (1997).

189 Negreanu, Mihail: “Câteva cuvinte asupra poporul japonez” [A Few Words about the Japanese People] conference held at Athenee Călărași, March 2, 1905; published as a booklet in 1907. Scumpieru, Ion: “133 de ani de relaţii România–Japonia” [133 years of Romania–Japan Relations], 2014. Sorescu, Constantin: “Japonia, o continuă revelație: reprezentări românești”, [Japan, an ongoing revelation: Romanian representations] 1997. Stăncescu, Mihail: “Japonia” [Japan], 1925. Tokutomi, Roka『順礼紀行』[Notes from My Pilgrimage], 1906. Tokutomi, Sohō『蘇峰自伝』[Sohō’s Autobiography], 1896.

190 IDENTITY IN FRAGMENTS KANNO YÔKO, COUNTER-ORIENTALISM AND ECLECTIC NOSTALGIAS IN ANIME SOUNDTRACKS

Maria GRAJDIAN*

Abstract: When the anime short-movie “Magnetic Rose” (a 22-minutes long anime movie included as the first part of the trilogy “Memories”) was released in the year 1995, it shattered profoundly the Japanese public opinion due to its unexpected ideological-aesthetic correlations and inspite a very modest box- office success. Subsequently, the television anime series “Cowboy Bebop” was released in 1998 and brutally awakened both the Japanese and the Western audiences to the realities of violence, sex and lack of orientation looming within the carefully sanitized societies of post-industrialized, late-modern nations – simultaneously with an astonishing success at box-office. This paper focuses on the disturbing music composed by Yôko Kanno (born 1964) whose anime soundtracks support the dramaturgic structure developed by the anime director Kôji Morimoto (born 1959) respectively Watanabe Shin’ichirô (born 1965) in their efforts to visually create alternative universes, firstly by bringing into foreground Giacomo Puccini’s (1858-1924) spectacular, haunting music – refreshed by Yôko Kanno’s own compositional vision with warm sensitivity and in-depth insight, and secondly by combining in a colourful rainbow-like spectrum different styles and musical genres (ranging from US music and counter-culture of the 1940s-1960s, sounds of the era of early rock from the 1950s-1970s, Western country music and Arabian inflections). On the one hand, there is the critical examination of Yôko Kanno’s creative compositional strategies in her taking over Giacomo Puccini’s stylistic characteristics as well as her coping with Western counterpoint and harmony techniques as well as Eastern a-rhythmicity. On the other hand, there is a specific „sincerity“ in Yôko Kanno’s music to which both anime specialists and anime fans repeatedly referred as possibly being Yôko Kanno’s „secret tool“ on her way towards popularity and financial success. Taking these both dimensions into account, the current paper will suggest different interpretation options beyond the orientalist temptation as reflected in the employment of songs and arias alongside animated structures. Keywords: Japanese cultural imperialism, anime, anime soundtracks, social critique

* Associate Professor of Media Studies, Cultural Anthropology and Anthropology of Media at Nagasaki University, School of Global Humanities and Social Sciences.

191 Introduction: the musicalisation of identity Regarded as one of the most globalized product of last decades, the anime – Japanese animation – is a world full of romantics, and above all, a world full of longing for romantics. In the stress ration between the carefully displayed image of traditional Japanese culture, on the one hand, and the belief that the contemporary Japanese world emerged as a paradoxical entity, on the other hand, the anime as art form proves that the differences which appeal as insurmountable between the Western and the Japanese culture are, in fact, created differences, thus being the result of a process which tends to erase the more suble cultural interferences. During the last decades, the anime as market- relevant product extracting its raison-d’être from its saleability, became the major means by which the Japanese world becomes accessible internationally, while simultaneously containing strong identificatory characteristics of local origins: one might thus wonder if anime is perhaps Japan’s first authentic export product during its modernity, promoting “not a vulgarisation of Japan, but rather a japanisation of the West, a formal continuation of humanity in a post-historical world”, as Alexandre Kojève predicted it in 1959? (quoted in in Tobin J. 2004:8; see Azuma 2001) In this paper, I shall tackle the problematics of the musical backgrounds in Japanese animation works: the so-called anime soundtracks. Due to its current worldwide spread universality described sometimes as ’Pokemon hegemony’, both anime and manga were officially recognized in 2000 in the White Paper published by the Japanese government as important and representative cultural expression forms in modern Japan: firstly, they are homogenized media underlying prevalent consumption practices and historical-geographical norms, and secondly, they embody a significant carrier of Japanese cultural assets (Iwabuchi 2004:60). From such a perspective, anime soundtracks are analyzed in this paper both textually and contextually, in relation to other dimensions of anime such as plot, characters, production process and audiences or their sociocultural status. Thus, while it is an open secret that the anime continues the aesthetical and ideological visual tradition of the emaki-mono (picture scrolls of the Heian period) and of the ukiyo-e (wood-block prints of the Edo period), enriched by influences of the local stage arts – noh, kabuki, bunraku, Takarazuka Revue – and of the Walt Disney fantasy worlds (see Monnet 2006:201, Takahata 1999:14, Yamaguchi Y. 2004:36, Yamaguchi/Watanabe 1997:56), it is also a genre of mass entertainment, a dynamic medium incorporating various levels of reality representation in a spiral-like dialectical process in which past, present and future co-exist and condition each other. As examples for the role played by anime soundtracks in creating and implementing new identity paradigms in late modernity, I take two anime works – Magnetic Rose (1995) and Cowboy Bebop (1998) –, for which the musical background was composed by Kanno Yôko1. As to be shown further below, both

1 Kanno Yôko (born 1964) is a Japanese composer, arranger and musician best known for her work on the soundtracks for many games, anime films, TV series, live-action movies, and advertisements (Stevens 2007:148).

192 Kanno Yôko’s compositional style and vision and her close cooperation with the band The Seatbelts2 actively contributed to the emergence of refreshing musical worlds within the framework of the Japanese animation, which leads, in a further step, to the formation and development of a new identity structure based on cultural artefacts in late modernity, given the increasing popularity of anime works worldwide. Furthermore, anime renders possible for Westerners the access into a world which functions according to different rules and structures as compared to the Western nations, though it was built as an economical superpower according to Western standards. Furthermore, the anime shows in an umcomplicated way the differences between the Japanese space and the secularized though monotheist and minimal-pair-like patterned Western world, in which there is a single God, a single truth and a single correct answer to everything, in which justice always prevails and there is an only one justice possible, to begin with, in which rationality is more reliable than intuition or emotion, in which a strict separation between reality and fantasy determines the pursuit of fulfillment and happiness. It discloses specific visions of truth, reality, rationality and the universe, at times in a confusing, at times in a challenging, at times in an exciting way (Drazen 2003:65, Levi 1997:78). Oftentimes, Western anime fans mentioned in interviews the fact that the unusual appeal of the anime works rests in its impredictability, in its uncanny ability to question the simplest facts of life as familiar in the Western world, so that even the most ethnocentric viewer starts to wonder about things previously plainly taken for granted. Watching anime is, in a way, similar to looking through an inverse mirror, in which a strangely familiar and still somehow different reflection of the self appears. Technically speaking, the anime as a syncretic medium is inferior to its US- American counterparts, especially to Disney productions, a fact which, in its turn, is compensated by startling fantasy worlds, diverse and multi-dimensional characters (such as naive, weak men and self-confident, provocative women as well as deeply humanized robots, cute aliens and self-sufficient animals), and complex storylines in which the good and the evil switch roles permanently (Napier 2005:221, Richie 2001:202). More than live-action movies, anime works create a cosmology in which the imitation of reality prevails over the reality itself precisely because it can improve and at times replace it. Eventually, the anime absorbs the very essence of reality better than the reality itself due to its universality which transforms the individual into a site of exploration and discovery – like in noh, kabuki, bunraku, Takarazula Revue as well, which represent on-stage the essentialization of humanity in its beautiful transcience. This amazingly clear and honest insight into the longings and fears of the Japanese cultural space, the „Japanese soul“ (Yamato-damashii) as a contradictory and still coherent whole allows Western viewers a glimpse into

2 The Seatbelts was a Japanese blues and jazz band led by composer and instrumentalist Kanno Yôko. The band performed the whole soundtrack of the anime series Cowboy Bebop and produced a total of seven albums and one live DVD. Their style is very diverse and ranges from straightforward big band jazz, blues, acoustic ballads, hard rock, country, funk to electronic, hip-hop and experimental compositions (Stevens 2007:157).

193 themselves too, as, at the end of Anderson’s „imagined communities“ (see Anderson 1991) and in the light of Hobsbawm’s „invented traditions“ (see Hobsbawm 2003), the anime as a powerful medium of non-Western representation practices discloses the similarities between apparently incongruent visions and values: beyond the strict obligations, limitations and responsabilities imposed by society, every salary-man and every office-lady, every housewife and every highschooler doing their best to accomplish their duties and tasks, they long for something which transcends their quotidian existence (see Sugimoto 1997:74). It is only human that such yearnings fade along the years, carried away by the waves of disenchanting experiences, losses and failures. It might seem easier at first sight to give up on holding onto the sacred and the eternal of the human being, and instead, to focus on everyday survival, however, anime productions, even the most superficial and commercial ones, are a permanent reminder that dreams and ideals are worth fighting for, that human beings are good at their very core and valuable in their very existence, that the world belongs to the brave and to the believers. There is hope, and there is beauty – and the anime characters live and die in the name of these parameters.

Tender selves: orientalist interludes and emotional ecleticism In the aftermath of the triple disaster on March 11th, 2011, the quest for national identity and the re-definition of the position of the individual within the collective framework has become a complex endeavor in Japan. An important element of this rather general movement refers to the reconsideration of the role played by cultural artefacts in configuring Japanese identity in late modernity. This is a basic assumption taking into account the fact that indigeneous popular culture is a clear indicator of the structure and direction of an emerging national identity in the process of being consolidated as a multidimensional phenomenon with local roots and global features. In this paper I focus simultaneously on anime as a central genre of Japanese popular culture and on identity as a controversial issue, as reflected in two representative anime works – an anime movie (Magnetic Rose) and an anime TV series (Cowboy Bebop) – and their respective soundtracks, and the impact they had on audiences as social conglomerates, both local and international. While analyzing the dynamic interplay between the visual and the auditive dimensions of the anime works, this papers strives to disclose the way in which anime soundtracks contribute to the designing of a new identity paradigm – implying its generation, propagation and implementation – based on love as a harmonious endeavor on a global level.

Beyond orientalism: Magnetic Rose (1995) When the tripartite anime production Memories was released in 1995, it shattered the Japanese audiences due to its unexpected ideological and aesthetical revelations, and inspite of a rather moderate box-office success. The short anime movie Magnetic Rose belongs as the first part of this production. Besides Magnetic Rose (Kanojo no omoide, literal translation: „Her Memories“) which describes the adventures of an international spacecraft team in their response to an SOS message coming from a small asteroid, the other two short

194 anime movies tackle current, highly sensitive issues of the contemporary world: the second short movie Stink Bomb (Saishû-heiki, literal translation: „The Most Stinking Weapon“) is the sarcastic story about the catastrophic effects of a biological weapon over which the control was lost and which killed through its very bad stench the whole population of Japan. The third short movie Cannon Fodder (Taihô no machi, literal translation: „The City of the Cannon“) is an allegory about a small, completely isolated town whose citizens are exclusively living their daily lives while maintaining a huge cannon in order to be prepared to protect themselves for the case in which a powerful, but invisible enemy attacks them – an enemy who never shows up (Clements/McCarthy 2001:328a). All three short movies are based on manga works drawn by the producer Ôtomo Katsuhiro (born 1954), whose debut anime movie Akira in the year 1988 had accomplished the breakthrough of anime as a genre of Japanese animation in the West due to an impressive success at Western box-office, and inspite, again, of a fairly moderate success at the Japanese box-office. In the forthcoming analysis, I focus on the anime soundtrack composed by Kanno Yôko supporting the dramatic substance designed by the director Morimoto Kôji (born 1959) and its visual display of an alternate universe in the well-known progressive animation style of the anime studio called Studio 4°C. Kanno Yôko recreats with warm sensibility and profound comprehension the spectacular, haunting music of Giaccomo Puccini translated into her own compositional language. The soundtrack consists mainly of melodic structures which are strongly reminiscent of Giaccomo Puccini’s opera world, with complex orchestration constructions that reflect and highlight the plot development, and bring closer to the surface the deep, complicated inner world of the characters. Contrasting to that, the music in the short anime movie Stink Bomb, directed by Okamura Tensai and released by Madhouse Studio, is composed by Miyake Jun and uses mainly jazz and funk elements, thus further emphasizing the chaotic and sarcastic character of the movie. An even more extreme contrast is the music composed by Nagashima Hiroyuki in the last short anime movie Cannon Fodder, directed by Ôtomo Katsuhiro and released by Studio 4°C, altogether a colourful mixture of Brass-Band and symphonic fragments as well as avantgarde compositional techniques. Simultaneously with the critical analysis of Kanno Yôko’s creative compositional strategies while taking over and employing Giaccomo Puccini’s stylistical characteristics, this section tackles the problematic of the concept of „sincerity“ in Kanno Yôko’s music, as repeatedly mentioned by anime fans and specialists. This so-called „sincerity“ is generally regarded as Kanno’s secret tool in attaining popularity and financial success while staying true to her compositional standards and ideals. A further point is the disclosure of possible interpretations transgressing orientalist temptations for the employment of the aria „Un bel di, vedremo“ („One beautiful day, I will see“, from Madame Butterfly, in Maria Callas’ version from 1955) along the anime movie Magnetic Rose. As previously mentioned, the musical background in Magnetic Rose relies heavily on Giaccomo Puccini’s compositional style, providing such features as generous melodic arches, quiet rhythmic structures, colourful instrumental

195 distributions, as well as a balanced portioning of dynamic, emotionally intense passages and lyrical melodic sections. Still, Kanno Yôko does not aim at providing an epigonic score. Based on those elements which could be described as typical for Puccini’s music, Kanno displays a musical landscape which goes way beyond a purely stylistic imitation. From such a perspective, the beforehand mentioned features regarded as typical for Puccini are enhanced by various compositional strategies and firmly included into a more universal context, built-up of three composiotional strategies in Magnetic Rose, as to be outlined below. Firstly, it is a highly eclectic style, in which the characteristics of Puccini’s music are combined with other musical styles in a rainbow-like spectrum: from heavy-metal to ethno-pop, from Western classics to Eastern modalisms, from jazz and blues to folk music. As expressed during an interview in 2006, rather than being a conscious choice towards eclecticism, it is a compositional attitude which reflectes every composer’s emotional dilemma in late-modern Japan, relying, on the one hand, on one’s own cultural heritage, and striving, on the other hand, for international recognition due to economical factors. Secondly, Kanno adopts a syncretic approach with emphasis on the alternation between the visual and the auditive levels. In the anime industry, the auditive musical background is added and edited in the final stages of the post- production, which creates dubbing artists and sound engineers oftentimes massive problems in matching the two levels (as opposed to Western animation, especially the one in the Walt Disney tradition, which tackles the sound and music simultaneously with the visual design, or even prioritize it in the production process; Grajdian 2008:37). As stated in the previously mentioned interview in 2006, Kanno Yôko repeatedly referred to the fact that she always does her best to adapt her compositional vision to the graphic-design vision of the main director, without ever losing sight of the function of music as a counterpart to the images. „Syncretism“ means in this case a generous communication between different expression levels within the artwork, and less a conscious juxtaposition of representational techniques within the artistic discourse. Thirdly, there is the quest for a leitmotif-like structure in the shape of the aria “Un bel di, vedremo” from Madame Butterfly, in Maria Callas’ version from 1955. The role played by the aria “Un bel di, vedremo” from Madame Butterfly as an opera can be seen from two main points of view: the plot is placed in Nagasaki, in the past one of the most progressive cities in Japan and the only gate open to the rest of the world during Japan’s long “politics of seclusion” (Edo period, 1603- 1868). The development and the denouement of the plot in Puccini’s opera could be considered, on the other hand, as one of the most important stages in the orientalisation process of Japan by the West (Mathews 2000:33). Furthermore, from the perspective of the current analytical discourse, the employment of Maria Callas’ version suggests an almost symbolic significance, as it brings to the forefront the ethos of an entire generation of artists and „contents creators“ long before the emergence and spread of digitization made the inter-connectivity a daily issue, as Kanno Yôko put it in the interview in 2006. Just as the main character Eva Friedal, or her memory, lingers on the abandoned space-station in the midst of holograms and electronic waste (after having disappeared in the

196 aftermath of murdering her fiance Carlo Rambaldi), Maria Callas’ voice with the aria „Un bel di, vedremo“ counter-points the intermitent contacts between the space-station which is sending the SOS signals and the spacecraft pursuing the SOS signals. It is like the song of an invisible mermaid carrying Eva’s voice in the dramatic, hopeful tones of Puccini’s music, driving the two spacecraft specialists Heintz and Miguel increasingly deeper into their own illusionary worlds, arisen from past traumas and their encounters with fascinating and hurtful instances (see. Drazen 2003:78). The tension between Maria Callas’ vigurous voice, completely absorbed in her devotion and Cho-cho-san’s fragile stature seems to reflect once again the stress ratio between what was commonly referred to in the past as the „West“ and the „East“ – a stress ratio which is, by all means, challenged and eventually reversed by its employment as musical background to anime images as the visual main representation dimension. In other words, as it became clear during the interview with the composer and later on in another interview with the director Ôtomo Katsuhiro: „Un bel di, vedremo“ is an aria of hope. The little Japanese girl is waiting full of longing, love and unconditional commitment for the great, allmighty Western man. This power-relationship as displayed in Madame Butterfly significantly shaped the public perception of the relationship between Japan and the West during the last 100 years. It is, historically speaking, the hopeful view of the Japanese intellectuals from the early Meiji period (1868-1912) while striving to absorbe the technical and industrial achievements of the Western modernity, of which they believed they could deliver practical, possibly immediate solutions for the political and economical state of bankruptcy, in which Japan found itself at the end of the of Edo period (McClain 2002:43). Roughly 100 years later – in 1995 –, the aria „Un bel di, vedremo“ in the anime work Magnetic Rose turns into a song of passionate revenge. By employing this very song, her greatest success during her lifetime, the main protagonist Eva Friedel, once a very famous opera singer who has murdered her fiance in a burst of jealousy, seduces and kills the spacecraft specialists by attracting them into an illusionary world crafted out of their own past traumas and suppressed desires. One could go as far as to say that it expresses bluntly Japan’s current efforts, increased after the triple disaster on March 11, 2011, to re-define and (re- )configure the concept of „superpower“, above all as a cultural movement on an international level. It is a thoroughly Japanese version of cultural imperialism, in which Japan – respectively, the Japanese government – strives to generate and implement worldwide Japanese cultural assets via the so-called Cool Japan movement (Iwabuchi 2004:62). The selection of these cultural artefacts refers so far mainly to cultural elements which have emerged during Japan’s modernity under Western influence: e.g., anime (cartoons) and manga (comics), movies and J-Pop (Japanese popular music), cute fashion and minimalist architecture as well as Westernized Japanese cuisine such as potato-salad sushi and Hello Kitty pizza. The reason for selecting such cultural products relies on the fact that they resonate in a subliminally-familiar way with the perception of Western consumers, while being simultaneously unknown and exotic, and thus create the curiosity and the impulse for consumption. And, as both the composer Kanno

197 Yôko and the director Ôtomo Katsuhiro repeatedly mentioned, Magnetic Rose and the entire trilogy was mainly aimed at Western audiences. In her pragmatic pursuit for an authentic compositional development, Kanno Yôko keeps an ironic approach towards cultural artefacts by disclosing in full honesty the ideological clichés and aesthetical stereotypes dominating the artistic discourses while at the same time playfully tackling the problematics of self and other as mutual reflections leading eventually to mutual transcendences (Grajdian 2011:18). This compositional endeavor includes, furthermore, a creative repetition of musical structures under the sign of cultural differences: that is, the transformative quoting within the compositional process, in which irony is the foundation and sincerity is the super-structure – in Marxist parlance –, and this leads, eventually, to economical success of cultural products. The employment of ideological clichés and aesthetical stereotypes becomes a fundamental means within the marketing process implying a creative game with familiar structures and the simultaneous use of alienating patterns in unexpected contexts and combinations. Altogether, Magnetic Rose received very good specialists’ reviews and was classified by the anime journal Animage as No 68 in the scale of Best 100 anime works of all times (Ckements/McCarthy 2001:345b). A realistically displayed love story about loss, pain and emotional horror, devastating and lyrical at the same time, Magnetic Rose appears both on the visual and auditive levels as a turning point in the history of Japanese animation. Its release was prepared by previous anime works directed by Ôtomo Katsuhiro such as Akira (1988) and Rôjin Z (Old Man Z, 1992), and prepares the path to more symphonically structured anime works such as Steamboy (2004). In terms of the anime soundtrack, Magnetic Rose acts as an important station facilitating the transition from several less important anime works to which Kanno Yôko had composed the musical background towards the memorable Cowboy Bebop (1998) – its soundtrack, composed as well by Kanno Yôko is still regarded as the best anime soundtrack of all times, both by fans and by specialists. As such, the anime soundtrack of Magnetic Rose overcomes and transcends the orientalist challenges in Puccini’s music by ironically reversing the alienating sounds and displaying a world full of sincere artistic visions in which self and other don’t compete with each other, but melt into each other tenderly.

Stylistic pragmatism vs nostalgic eclecticism: Cowboy Bebop (1998) After Magnetic Rose (1995), the TV anime series Cowboy Bebop (1998, director: Watanabe Shin’ichirô, released by Studio Sunrise) appeared as a further step in the creation of what one might describe as the efficient political „administration of emotions in the Japanese popular culture industry“ (see McGray 2002:48).3 This anime production profoundly shattered, at the same time, the Japanese and international audiences due to unexpected ideological and aesthetic correlations as well as an astonishing success at box-office, on two main

3 Two further manga versions were published by Kadokawa Shoten (1998 and 1999- 2000).

198 levels: firstly, the visual handling of the plot with an at times shocking display of violence and despair; secondly, the acoustic dimension of the musical background composed by Kanno Yôko, as mentioned previously, a female composer who managed to disrupt the prevailing clichés and standards in an artistic world dominated by male figures through a so-called „gendered sincerity“ and to impose new emotional and artistic norms and regulations. Along 26 episodes („sessions“), a whole storyline set in 2071 unfolds, dealing roughly with the adventures and destinies of a group of bounty hunters („cowboys“) living in a spacecraft called „Bebop“. The general style of Cowboy Bebop is based on the US music and counter-culture of the 1940s-1960s as well as the era of early rock located during the 1950s-1970s. Additionally, Western country music and Arabian inflections are remarkable, creating a colourful visual and acoustic universe, which possibly decissively contributed to the international success of this TV anime series, next to its local success. While the visual dimension of Cowboy Bebop and the complex design and structure as well as evolution of its characters is an extremely exciting and profound topic in itself, I focus in the forthcoming analysis on the soundtrack (the background music) of this anime TV series. Furthermore, simultaneously with the critical observation of Kanno Yôko’s hybridizing strategies, I tackle the so-called „gendered sincerity“ in her music, repeatedly highlighted both by anime fans and anime specialists. The „sincere character“ of Cowboy Bebop’s music is mostly regarded in the academic discourse as related to the composer’s femininity: it dazzlingly shines within the male-dominated anime world and especially in the shônen genre (to which Cowboy Bebop belongs), while dissolving the stress ratio between the commercial efforts and the artistic endeavours, and transcends the criticism of anime as being plainly „junk culture“. Thus, masculinity and femininity as well as popular and high culture are brought to the common denominator of a constructive conception of the self as a balanced, harmonious, tender interaction with the other. Strongly influenced by the previous TV anime series Neon Genesis Evangelion (Shin-seiki Evangerion, literal translation: „Gospel of a new century“, 1995-1996, director: Annô Hideaki, music: Sagisu Shirô, produced by Gainax Studio) which challenged the Japanese and international censorship (and audiences as well) due to its violence and sex scenes, Cowboy Bebop reproduced in an exceptionally sensitive way the atmosphere of constant anxiety dominating the anime world post-Neon Genesis Evangelion, which in its turn faithfully reflected the constant feelings of insecurity present in the Japanese society of those years, after having waken up from the belief of Japan being a clean, non- violent world and a perfectly functioning system. Cowboy Bebop’s bounty hunters are typical protagonists in a troubled world, disturbingly close to what might lurk under the surface of social harmony and cohesion: Spike Spiegel is a 27-years old lazy and blase bounty hunter born on Mars whose life philosophy is apparently based on the century-old samurai-like ideal of immediacy, and considers himself dead, whereas death is envisioned as an awakening from a dream-like state. Jet Black is a 36-year old former policeman, hard-working and diligent, who describes himself as a sort of Renaissance person with his passion

199 for bonsai trees, cooking and jazz music – especially Charlie Parker. The 23-year old Faye Valentine is the personification of wickedness: corrupt, cold-blooded, a compulsive gambler and kleptomaniac, she uses her unusually strong sex-appeal to get her way in anything she does. Behind this facade, however, hides a deeply frightened and hurt girl, who had been set into deep-sleep during an accident in a spacecraft, and had woken up 54 years later in a completely unknown, unfamiliar world – without memories, without trust, without friends. Edward Wong Hau Pepelu Tivrusky IV is a weird, oftentimes silly, apparently 13-year old girl, born on Earth; she possesses her own computer tinkered out of a tomato-box, and is the best hacker of all times. Still, in spite of her affectionate feelings towards Cowboy Bebop’s team, she eventually leaves it in her pursuit for unknown horizons, probably longing for an elusive past. Ein is a Pembroke Welsh Corgi, an exceptionally intelligent data-dog who can use the telephone and the internet, and do many other things which average members of the canine breed are unlikely to be able to do. Finally, Vicious Vicious is a man from Spike’s past: The two of them were partners in the syndicate of the Red Dragon, and fell in love with the same woman, Julia – a beautiful, somewhat old-fashioned romantic character with long blond hair and a red umbrella –, an event which led to their eternal feud. Ambitious and ruthless, Vicious Vicious spares no means to secure his power and supremacy. Thus, the adventures and worries of Cowboy Bebop’s team are those of everyday social acteurs, in the words Pierre Bourdies’s, even if they live in an era in which the entire universe has been transformed into a human habitat. They do not admit it, not even to themselves, but they do yearn for love and belonging a well as for clear circumstances, oftentimes on the background of a dark and unhealed past. This is the yearning for a deeper connection to one’s own self felt by a whole generation which perceives itself as being left alone without satisfying orientation boards and explicit signposts. The old role-models were suffocated by intellectual treatises on humanity, rationality and progress, while those to whom these should have served as guides and ideals, gradually sank into confusion and loneliness (see Bauman 1997:124, Riesman 1950:128). ‘ It is a fact that what is known as ‘liquid’ or ‘hybrid’ identity flows from Japan to the rest of the world. In Japan, this ‘liquid identity’ moves towards a culturally sanctioned androgynity, so that when everything becomes ‘liquid’ – both the construction and the perception as well as the acceptance of gender –, the centers and the boundaries of the concepts and of the phenomena and between categories blurr and merge (Bauman 2000:58, Wittgenstein 1984.223; see Eagleton 1990:138). Thus, even the great heroes of modernity – likewise the symbolic characters in Cowboy Bebop – turn into Frankenstein-like figures compounded of Western artefacts, but lacking the Japanese spirit as a unifying force. This, again, reminds of past wounds – as the bitter defeat in Pacific War – and their ironic repetition in artistic products as a way to cope with Japaneseness, at a deeper level, as it is the case with Cowboy Bebop: While the plot revolves around the destinies of the five members of the spacecraft and describes their hunting actions in search for bounties across the whole solar system aided by strong warpgates, each episode is centered around an unique musical theme

200 within the soundtrack composed by Kanno Yôko and played by the band The Seatbelts. The titles of some episodes are inspired by the names of famous albums or songs – e.g., Sympathy for the Devil (Session 6), Bohemian Rhapsody (Session 14), My Funny Valentine (Session 15) – or allude to a specific genre – e.g., Asteroid Blues (Session 1), Ballad of Fallen Angels (Session 5), Heavy Metal Queen (Session 7), Waltz for Venus (Session 8), Jupiter Jazz (Sessions 12-13), Black Dog Serenade (Session 16), Mushroom Samba (Session 17), Boogie Woogie Feng Shui (Session 21), The Real Folk Blues (Sessions 25-26). The song Live in Baghdad from Heavy Metal Queen strongly refers to Western heavy- metal compositional practices, consisting of nonsensical lyrics in English, which additionally contributes to creating a deeper atmosphere of alienation in Cowboy Bebop.

ever eaten crabtree? missing in the wanting! any else comb tease? missing in the wanting! ever on a phone tree? missing since the fourteenth. Annie has cow cheese, missing in the wanting. On this, by this, bend this, shin this. I don’t intend to be so bold, B&B, if only I had money. Chaka Khan, canine, tell us, cold eel! can you have an eye out? tell us, oh dear! E-X-U-P, E-X-U-P E-X-U-P, E-X-U-P

More than comparable anime TV series targeted at a male audience – such as Black Jack 4 (2004-2006, director: Tezuka Makoto, produced by Tezuka

4 Black Jack made his manga debut in the weekly Shônen Champion magazine between 1973 and 1983 in 17 volumes, written by Tezuka Osamu, eventually concluding five years later and totalling 4,000 pages. On the anime market, between 1993 and 2000, a 10 episode original video animation by director Dezaki Osamu was released, followed by a four episode TV special from 2003 called Black Jack: The 4 Miracles of Life. A new 62- episode TV series directed by Tezuka Makoto was released in fall of 2004 in Japan, and a anime film entitled Black Jack: The Two Doctors of Darkness (Black Jack: Futari no kuroi isha, director: Dezaki Osamu) was released in December 2005. In late April 2006, the 17-episodes TV series Black Jack 21 (directors Tezuka Makoto and Kuwabara Satoshi) followed, featuring an all-new storyline based on standalone manga chapters. These tales of Black Jack are taken both from original screenplays and adapted from the original manga series. Directed with a trademark visual flair either by Dezaki Osamu (Tezuka’s

201 Productions, 62 episodes) or Death Note5 (2006-2007, director: Araki Tetsurô, produced by Madhouse Studio, 37 episodes) – which would display in the following years an alternate mixture of Western artefacts and Japanese emotions, Cowboy Bebop’s soundtrack has a tendency to absorb Western ideological stereotypes within Japanese aesthetical structures in a manner which seems at first sight arbitrary (vgl. Levi 2001:43, Schilling 1997:128). While, for instance, Black Jack and Light Kagami from the anime TV series mentioned above represent two different models of modern heroes, thus causing the complete liquefaction of identity by questioning the female-male paradigm in the context of social interactions, Cowboy Bebop marked an important step without, however, implying a clear stance. The confusion of modernity surfaces in the soundtracks of such TV anime series as the „revenge“ of the individualism, and suggests aggressive masculinity as charismatic masculinity within the crisis discourse of masculinity in late modernity. Correspondingly, Black Jack and Death Note as anime works will introduce a new form of androgynity by mixing up Western brutal sounds and Japanese poetic lyrics, while Cowboy Bebop stands out as a form of ‚indecissive masculinity’ in late modernity, visible in the import of Western sounds and the employment of English-language lyrics without any meaning whatsoever, in order to create an alternative masculinity as ‚new masculinity’ as a reaction to the gender crisis in the late 1990s in Japan – in itself, the first step within the process of identity dissolution in late-modern Japan. Later on, the emergent androgymity from Black Jack and Death Note is, therefore, less a historical prototype, and rather an artistic continuum consisting of ideological paradigms of a new era, in which aesthetical challenges and individual compromises have become inevitable. The cynical ending – the heartbreaking dissolution of the group of bounty hunters and the death of the main characters – appears as the logical consequence of a cosmic adventure and a romantic love-story between a strong, self-assertive man (Spike Spiegel) and the dreamy girl Julia, forever haunted by Spike’s arch-enemy Vicious Vicious. It is a disturbing and devastating display of darkness, twilight and night sceneries and moods, in which individual destinities and personalities are projected on the background of their quest for redemption and absolution – like in the dramatic prelude to the fight between Spike Spiegel and Vicious Vicious in episode 5 („Ballad of Fallen Angels“): the daunting song Rain (lyrics: Tim Jensen, music: Kanno Yôko, voce: Steve Conte/Yamane Mai). The fact that, even in totalitarian times and under most difficult circumstances, protegé) or by Tezuka Makoto (Tezuka’s son), the anime productions tone down the visual humor of the comic and dive deep into the operating room drama (Phillipps 2000, 59–67, Saitô 1996, 59–68) 5 Death Note (Desu nōto) is a manga series created by writer Ôba Tsugumi and manga artist Obata Takeshi, first serialized in 108 chapters by Shûeisha in the Japanese manga magazine Weekly Shonen Jump (December 2003 to May 2006). The series was adapted into three live action films (released between 2006 and 2008). The anime series was developed by Madhouse and aired in Japan from 3 October 2006 to 26 June 2007, on the Nippon Television network. Additionally, a light novel based on the series was released in Japan, and various video games were published by Konami and Nintendo DS.

202 the individual must still take moral decision and stand up for its ethical position, is probably the most important message of this TV anime series.

I don’t feel a thing and I stopped remembering the days are just like moments turned to hours. Mother used to say if you want, you’ll find a way but mother never danced through fire shower. Walk in the rain, in the rain, in the rain. I walk in the rain, in the rain. Is it right or is it wrong and is it here that I belong? I don’t hear a sound , silent faces in the ground the quiet screams, but I refuse to listen. If there is a hell I’m sure this is how it smells wish this were a dream, but no, it isn’t. Walk in the rain, in the rain, in the rain I walk in the rain, in the rain, am I right or am I wrong and is it here that I belong? Walk in the rain, in the rain, in the rain. I walk in the rain, in the rain why do I feel so alone? For some reason I think of home.

Anime’s enfants terribles are leading role-models for a great proportion of the Western and Japanese audiences, as the other side of a generalized social ennui. The Japanese mal de siècle and the resulting disentchantment seem to bring up a reconsideration of Voltaire’s thoughts expressed in Candide: namely, that a perfect world may exist only as utopia. The human world is indeed a poor, violent, imperfect world, but it is the only one available to humans, therefore, it is best to learn to cope with it and improve it to the highest of one’s abilities (see Lyotard 1993). Orwell’s empire clashes against Huxley’s world – the universe is not dialectical, the beautiful and the clean do not stand against the ugly and the dirty, but they interact in the humans’ strive for the impossible, in their desires and yearnings (vgl. Giddens 1990, Meštrović 1997, Žižek 1998). This requires an obssessive quest for the primordial responsability and the original reference within the the attempt to grasp the phenomena in their infinite existence, because change implies courage and vision to pursue the fight against the inertia of history and mankind. The increasing vulnerability in the course of modernity – the danger of nuclear wars, of incurable epidemies, of irreversible environmental disasters – drove the human being towards seeking a solution to his growing anxiety: even

203 more than mainstream high-culture, popular culture acts as a protective, even though fragile, shelter. Probably more than Western popular culture, anime – ontologically confusing and axiologically contradictory, simultaneously global and local – designs itself as such an emotional shelter: Its characters – the plots they are involved in, the circumstances they must cope with, the conversations they lead with each other – are not real, but rather products of an artistic imagination. Still, the dreams, emotions and longings which created them and brought them to life, stand for the dreams, emotions and longings of a way larger segment of population than the one which produced them. One might say that exactly these dreams, emotions and longings create worlds and realities which challenge the extraordinary in the audiences, beyond technical imperfections: like naive art, anime exists in the ludic character which reminds both Japanese and Western fans that its power and originality resides in its dynamic narratives, the complexity of the characters, the playful and unconventional temporality, the highly stylized form and, most of all, its sincerity and authenticity (see Drazen 2003, Takahata 1996). The warm humour, the radiant optimism and the sincere humanism extracts its teachings not from treatises, but from the reality of life and its daily actors, from the playful handling of serious issues and the artistic grasp of arbitrary phenomena processed within universal structures, from the mental freshness and the unconventional explosion of happiness – all these elements turn anime into a magical medium to put into the spotlight the ideological message of love and hope as authentic alternatives to late-modern indifference and emptiness.

Conclusion: the power of sincerity At the ideological and aesthetic crossroads between orientalism, eclecticism and nostalgia, Kanno Yôko’s so-called „gendered sincerity“ clashes against stylistic pragmatism, resulting in astonishing market-relevant insights: As expressed in anime as an original Japanese art-form, Japan no longer defends itself against the clichés and the contradictions imposed upon her by outer factors, but rather self-confidently absorbs these very clichés and contradictions, and creates its own new identity, according to late-modern standards and ideals. This new identity paradigm combines neo-traditionalism and anti-orientalism as well as the infamous intellectualization of popular culture, as to be clearly seen later on in such TV anime series like The Tale of Prince Genji: A Thousand-Years Chronicle (Genji monogatari sennenki, 2009, 11 episodes) released by Tezuka Productions under the supervision of the cult director Dezaki Osamu, or the anime movie The Tale of Princess Kaguya (Kaguya-hime no monogatari, 2013) released by Ghibli Studio and directed by Takahata Isao. Both anime works continue the series of similar anime productions in postwar-Japan which either employ the general problematics from Murasaki Shikibu’s novel or refer to the old Japanese folk-tale in order to create a higly aesthetic vision of reality coupled with deeply nostalgic ideologies of a past world. This ambivalent instrumentalization of phenomena of popular culture with the purpose of revigorating the classical Japan-image in times of the ubiquitous Cool Japan symptomatics brings to the forefront the idea that anime – as a genre,

204 as an expression mode, as an identification mechanism – is Japan, and perhaps even the world of tomorrow. Caught in the stress ratio between Asia-phily and Asia-phobia – Ajia he no hen’ai bzw. Ajia kyôfushô (Kusanagi 2003:23) – Japan not only becomes the confirmed otaku Mecca, but proves once again in its colourful diversity that the utopia of mutual recognition emerges from the illusion of a coherent history and from the hope of a freely consistent design of the modern individual. Like hope and freedom, love is an ideal and an ideology both in its absence and inaccessibility. The contradictions occurring in anime works confront the audiences with the fragmentation of culture and its separation from the real life in the modern world, challenging the worldview in which the abyss between the discourses of knowledge, ethics and politics, as Habermas once put it, could possibly be overcome through the arts and through the experience mediated by the arts (see Baudrillard 2001, Habermas 1981, Lyotard 1979). At the same time, the anime as a genre acts as a counter-force to current liquefaction tendencies within identificatory mechanisms due to the solid foundation of its ideology referring to the appreciation of life as the most important asset one possesses and could ever posses. Beyond the yearning and the quest for a dialectically totalizing and unifying experience in the Hegelian tradition, there is the question whether in the contemporary world a common, homogeneous trajectory of history and a simple, coherent subject are still possible. The anime world displays a clear and ambitious alternative to the original illusion that a primordial subject and a linear history are still possible which root in a mythical past and flourish in a ‚pure future’: “これこれが夢物語でなく、アニメによってジャパニズ・ドリームが狙える根拠なのである。” (Tada 2002:62) 6 It orchestrates the solidification project of identity as a dynamic, flexible interaction between several possible identities as well as the additional suggestion of an identity program based on a set of clear objectives. The power of anime relies in its concrete form and its abstract contents. At the point when Western cultural and identificatory models have lost their ability to persuade as a late consequence of the Enlightenment-driven belief in rationality, a solution coming from far-away seems to promise an alternate solution: Japan, China or Korea metamorphosed suddenly into sources of fresh, more satisfying life strategies, visible in the dispersion of Oriental and Asian cultures across Western nations in recent year – Oriental-chic in the West, Japan-chic in East Asia or even Asia-chic in Japan (Aoyagi 2000:315, Tobin 1992:17). Cultural-political orientalism lost its discursive practicality as neo-Asian style refers rather to cultural individual identity, and not to national circumstances, in order to define, invent and design a new human model. This procedure of defining, inventing and designing new human models makes use of old-fashioned, recurring elements of the orientalist discourse, but at the same they do re-contextualize and do load them with new dimensions of significance, so that such concepts as passive, incomprehensible, childish, impermanent, victims and victimization or lack of self- assertiveness move away from the obsolete level of Oriental identification and turn into

6 This is the proof that it is not an illusion, but that anime is a means to attain the ‚Japanese Dream’.

205 central attributes of a new, global behaviour and thinking system of a ‘cool’, mobile and dynamic individual. They function as a link within the flow of the blurred, neo-Asian values as well as neo-Asian governing styles and the confusing loss of individualism and self-determination in the West (see Izawa 2000:149f.), as it was expressed by a Western anime fan during a discussion in June 2007: Western fans take pleasure in anime [productions] precisely because they do not feel responsible for participating in the culture which creates it. Although [Western] anime fans realize how similar their [anime’s] stories are to American stories, they eagerly watch an anime movie because it comes from ‘far away’. Watching anime gives Americans a chance to reflect on their own culture, but it also lets them deny that they are doing so. That anime is Japanese in origin tells us that [Westerners’] feelings about their own culture are deeply bound up with [Western’s] evolving relationship to Japan. The end of the Ancient Régime (the Hirohito-Ära) in the year 1989 meant, additionally, a fresh confrontation between the self and the other in the context of a newly developed techno-orientalism and cultural imperialism as a form of yearning for the safe world of the 1960s which provided the stable values of the solid modernity as well as trajectories and goals (see Morley/Robins 1995). Western fans recognize anime as resistance to the self which is denied with anger or ignorance, while Japanese fans reconstruct the ‚Japanese soul’ (Yamato- damashii) via anime: Like a bow too tautly strung, the Japanese islands stretch athwart the northeast of Asia. They are steep with mountains, thick with forests and thin of soil divided by swift-running rivers and covered by a fretting of overworked fields. They are not the kind of land that produces philosophers or individuallists. This is a turbulent country with taut dynamic people – excessively kind and excessively cruel, makers of delicate poetry and revolting wars, born as artists, living as bondsmen, dying as gods. Switzerland and Belgium are in the true sense of the word countries. Britain is a tradition, Russia is a mood. America is a way of life. Japan is a spirit, insular and protesting. [...] It is not quietly stubborn like the Chinese spirit, which even beneath its layer of communism is ever the repository of a culture. The Japanese is oddly young. He is childlike in his refusal to admit defeat. He is childlike also in his plastic ability to assimilate new ideas and adjust them to sudden changes in his situation. [...] In their last battles [of the Second World War respectively Pacific War], the Japanese fought with a concentrated fury which the rest of the world had either forgotten or never experienced. (Gibney 1953:3) Anime as part of the global cultural industry and often described as junk culture shows that morality is a purely social concept, not a transcendental vision of the universe. As such, even if loyalty and courage define an anime character as a hero, they would not save him in his endeavours: the disenchanting bottom-line

206 of all anime works is that the world doesn’t care about the individuals residing into it. From this perspective, the anime offers a much more honest picture of Japan – and of the world at large – than complicated, artificial high-art might ever accomplish (Bornoff 2002:48, Drazen 2003:78). This absolute, clear honesty is what defines anime works created by important anime directors such as Takahata Isao, Miyazaki Hayao, Ôtomo Katsuhiro, Oshii Mamoru, Annô Hideaki, Watanabe Shin’ichirô, Shinkai Makoto, Kon Satoshi, who integrated elements of everyday culture (e.g., the new model of the dynamic girl in the leading role) within their own aesthetic and ideological visions, so that the anime phenomenon pursues its existence as a sociocultural product beyond economic and political constraints and limitations. The intense tension between composition and technique, between reality and fantasy, between conformism and revolution, plot and character structure is a defining element of the anime, both late-modern and of the early Japanese animation in prewar-Japan, of which it is the continuation. The individual as portrayed in many anime works rises above its function within the collectivist system, thus transforming the anime in an ambivalent symbol for a new Japan, though deeply rooted in a glorious past: on the one hand, this new Japan is an imagined community consisting of selected Western material artefacts, while at the same time resisting any approaching attempts of the West which might endanger its core identity. On the other hand, this new Japan is a reservoir accumulating ancient Asian cultural histories while carrying the responsability to keep alive Asia and the Asian identity in the era of globalizing cultural dissolution (Robertson 1998:289; see Oshii 2004). The liquefaction of such concepts as self, other, modernity or identity stays in direct relation with the dissipation of solid historical and social structures who served as an orientation in times of political engagement and economical growth. It is at this point that anime’s function as a continuator of the e-makimono and of the ukiyo-e is to be seen: In the same way as the premodern images of the intellectual elite or of the floating world, anime productions capture the human essence in its ephemerality, and give the liquefied self a momentary solidity which encompasses the uncertainty of the future, the beauty of the present and the unchangeability of the past (see Satô 1992, Tada 2002). Sometimes, anime characters look beyond their animated life into the quotidian lives of their audiences as in a reverse journey on this side of the mirror, and discover here hope, support, confidence and courage. By means of this „fan service“, anime directors create and transfer the significance of believing in one’s own dreams and in finding love by first loving oneself, by glimpsing into a joyous future even when the present seems painful, boring, aimless, caught in a dead-end lack of alternatives. The other way round, anime audiences accompany their anime characters through their struggles, their victories and their defeats, their emotions and experiences, and land then softly back into reality (Levi 1997:78). Along the way, they are equipped with the important message to believe in oneself, in love and the future with courage and perseverance, and inspite of all failures, to go on living. At times, this message becomes blurred, and then new anime works arise which speak of the power of remembrance in times when

207 oblivion seems like the convenient alternative. This is how Tezuka Hiroshi, Tezuka Osamu’s7 younger brother, explained it in a discussion in Spring 2010: The good within the human being, its value, its immortal self – my brother believed in that. I can hardly say anything about anime or about my brother as a manga or anime creator. But I believe I am not wrong when I state that he believed in the continuity of life through love and forgiveness, and he fought for the fulfillment of human ideals. Perhaps, that was his fate. There is the question, of course, if anime is only a medium without any message. A possible answer might be that most outsiders would never be able to overcome the language and culture barriers in order to see Japan from the perspective of an average Japanese citizen. This might as well be the very reason to explain Japan’s ability to flourish as a cultural compact conglomerate in the midst of globalizing tendencies: There is a Japan for the Japanese, and there is a Japan for the rest of the world. These two versions of Japan overlap partially in the youth and popular culture, while also creating an invisible, but impenetrable wall to the outside, as visible in sumo wrestling, suburban neighbourhoods and variaty shows (see Ruh 2006:42). The ability to absorb alien influences inspite of a solid, intact core, and to adapt them subsequently, belongs to the plasticity and durability of the Japanese culture. The old question „Why could this gifted and active nation produce only very little to be accepted by other countries in an era open to all foreign influences?“ (Singer 1991:25), is answered today with the so- called National Cool as an alternative to Soft Power (see Clammer 2000, Nye 2004, Yamanouchi/Sakai 2003): Cultural power as a result of economic growth, leading in turn to cultural power metamorphosing into the catalyst of economic growth in times of crisis. While it might be true that Japan’s insular mentality prevented it from fully taking advantage of its considerable reservoirs of Soft Power elements and strategies, repeated globalization waves, economic recessions and political turmoils have been recently shattering Japan in its fundamental values and have been undermining its traditional ideals – from business culture to family life. However, Japan’s history of remarkable ressurections suggests rather a rebirth than a definitive decline as a result of current identity crises – not least due to its immense reserves of potential Soft Power energies. One day it will become obvious that the anime as a medium was, in fact, the real message.

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7 Tezuka Osamu (1928-1989) was the most important manga and anime author in postwar-Japan, and he crucially shaped the ideology and aesthetics of postwar Japanese visual popular culture.

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211 A CULTURAL INTERPRETATION OF THE FEATURES OF A JAPANESE GARDEN Oana Loredana SCORUŞ*

Abstract: In this paper we aim to make explicit the features of the Japanese ga rden as they appear from an analysis of the basic structure of three main types of garden: "kaiyūshiki," roji and "kanshōshiki". We show that their structure is b ased on the "movement space" perception – a concept introduced by Mitsuo Ino ue as the Japanese specific perception of architectural space. After checking the structure of the "kaiyūshiki" garden, we have seen that it is a representative exa mple of this Japanese space perception. Analysis of the structure of roji and "ka nshōshiki" garden revealed that they are also expressions of "movement space", which lends them a fundamental Japanese character, common with "kaiyūshiki" gardens, but each has its own specificities that determine creating from the sam e base of a different structure. For each type analyzed, we indicated some practi cal hints for garden appreciation taking into consideration the features observe d herein. Keywords: Japanese garden, movement space, culture

Introduction The structure of the Japanese garden can seem difficult to grasp for a non- Japanese visitor. When visiting famous gardens such as the gardens at Kinkakuji, or at the Katsura Imperial Villa, one can appreciate the exoticism of the golden pavilion or of the stone lanterns, the simplicity of the tea arbor and the dynamic shape of the pines, but for most non-Japanese visitors the way all these elements are combined does not always make too much sense. It is often said that the Japanese garden looks very close to a natural landscape, and one may be surprised to find out that there is a lot of human intervention in its design. This paper aims to prove that this design has a coherent logic, only it is a strongly Japanese one, a fact that makes it often difficult to grasp. We will try here to make this logic explicit and easy to understand for visitors less familiar with Japanese culture. The features we are looking for in the Japanese garden refer to the concept behind the global structure of the garden, the way these elements are arranged in a certain design. The focus is not on the concrete elements considered Japanese, such as the stone lantern or the red bridge. In this way we hope to present a way to appreciate the structure of the Japanese garden beyond the preconceptions and habits that our own cultures can impose. For this we are going to analyze the structure of three types of Japanese garden that become distinct during the latter part of the feudal period: the kaiyūshiki, roji and kanshōshiki gardens. We will show that they all have a

* PhD Candidate at Kyoto University

212 fundamentally Japanese common base. These styles form a significant part of the Japanese gardens existing in the present day, and we believe that this analysis can give us important hints for appreciating other styles of Japanese garden. In order to point out the Japanese structure inherent in these three styles, we are going to use the "movement space", a concept introduced by the architectural historian Mitsuo Inoue as the Japanese specific perception of architectural space. According to Inoue, space perception was also established during the latter part of the feudal period, the result of a long evolution of Japanese architectural space perception. The latter part of the feudal period is often seen as the time when the culture we consider today to be "traditionally Japanese" formed, and Inoue affirms that since these years marked the last time Japan spent as an isolated and closed country, the Japanese could explore specificities without any big pressure or interaction from the outside world. As a result, we are not mistaken in considering this space perception as the specific character and foundation of Japanese architecture to the present day1. This is why we believe that the analysis of "movement space" in these three types of garden can reveal a proper interpretation of the features of Japanese gardens existing today. Inoue’s research focuses on the specific character of buildings, and, consequently, his references to the relationship of "movement space" with the structure of the Japanese garden do not go to far. He stops at pointing out that "movement space" is recognizable in kaiyūshiki and roji gardens, and as far as we know, there is no other paper that considers the features of the Japanese garden from the perspective of examining the impact of "movement space" has on its structure. After checking first what the "movement space" is as described by Inoue, in chapters two and three we will verify the concrete shape it takes in the two types of garden discussed by Inoue and we will see how each is a particular expression of the "movement space". Then, in the final chapter, we will add to Inoue’s list the third type – the kanshōshiki garden, which at first glance does not seem to have too much in common with this space perception, but at a closer look we will see that in fact its structure also includes "movement space" perception. For every style discussed, we will try to suggest a practical approach as addressed to a European visitor not very familiar with Japanese culture, an approach that takes into consideration the Japanese features of the garden as "movement space".

1. Mitsuo Inoue and "movement space" Mitsuo Inoue (1918-2002) wrote several articles on the history of Japanese architecture before proposing the "movement space" as the Japanese specific perception of architectural space. He first gathered together a significant number of his articles on the evolution of Japanese architecture in the book 『日本上代建築における空間の研究2』published in 1961. Although at this point he has already

1 Inoue (1985), p. 137. 2 The entire title is『日本上代建築における空間の研究: 形態・機能の諸点よりみた配置・平面等の総合的考察』and a translation in English would be "A study of the space in the ancient Japanese architecture: a synthesis of positioning, surfaces, etc., from various

213 established the grounds of his theory, he does not yet name this Japanese space perception "movement space". Only 8 years later, when『日本建築の空間』is published, will this phrase settle. This book will also be translated in English, in 1985, under the title "Space in Japanese Architecture". It has basically the same theme as『日本上代建築における空間の研究』and follows a very similar outline. There are however some important differences between the two books, that we will discuss below. Pointing out these differences will allow us to realize an important factor that led Inoue to the definition of the "movement space" as a Japanese perception, which is the addition of the parallel of the Japanese space perception with non-Japanese space perceptions. This fact makes the "movement space" essential in our endeavour to explain features of Japanese gardens that, being covered under a thick cultural layer, are hidden for most non-Japanese visitors. In both books, Inoue identifies five important periods in the evolution of the Japanese architecture and analyzes three types of buildings during each period: namely religious and aristocratic structures and ordinary dwellings, pointing out the way to perceive architectural space in each one of these periods, and explaining the cultural background that made this specific perception possible. The time up until the start of the Asuka period (592-710) marks the initial phase prior to the introduction of continental culture, when the accent was on material objects (jittai 実体), with the pillar (hashira 柱) being an essential element. Then follows the period of "plastic composition" or "sculptural composition" (chōsoteki kōsei 彫塑的構成), in the Asuka period, when the subject (shutai 主体) – which may be for example a statue of Buddha – has its own reserved space, where the object (kyakutai 客体) – the visitor/ spectator – is not permitted entry. The architecture of the "pictorial composition" (kaigateki kōsei 絵画的構成) follows, starting from the Nara period (710-794), continuing to develop mainly in the Heian period (794-1185) and through into the Kamakura period (1185-1333). Here the role of the spectator (kyakutai 客体) grows, and with this the importance of frontality (shōmensei 正面性) is more significant. Consequently the end of classical Japan marks the shift into the medieval times (the Kamakura and Muromachi (1336-1573) periods), where we see the start of the development of the concept of the interior space. Interior space divides and becomes more and more complex. This will open the way for the appearance of the Japanese specific perception of architectural space in the following period – the second part of feudal Japan (kinsei) namely the Azuchi-Momoyama (1568-1603) and Edo (1603- 1868) periods 3 ). According to Inoue, this perception is the one that gives specificity to architecture that is called today "traditionally Japanese", and gives it

perspectives, such as form and function." 3 Kinsei (近世) may indicate a slightly different period with every researcher. Inoue makes it clear that he refers to the Momoyama and Edo periods (Inoue (1969), p.228). Momoyama is the global name for the culture that developed in Japan in the second half of the 16th century, historical period named currently Azuchi-Momoyama period.

214 its "irregular" and "indeterminate4" character, so often pointed out by observers. Inoue also adds that this perception formed having in the background concepts like impermanence and "the world as flux", which dominated art and daily life at the time5. This is basically the common structure of both books. However, only in the second one – "Space in Japanese Architecture" – does Inoue refer to Japanese space perception as "movement-oriented architectural space" (kōdōteki kenchiku kūkan 行動的建築空間), and shortens the term to "movement space" (kōdōteki kūkan 行動的空間)．In 『日本上代建築における空間の研究』, the space perception that afterwards will be called "movement space" is called "architectural" (kenchikuteki 建築的) in order to maintain the same line with the nominations chosen for the previous periods, "sculptural composition" and "pictorial composition". Already from this stage, he points out the dynamism of this third type of perception and the importance of movement, and in the summary table, near the word "architectural" he adds between the parentheses the word "movement" (undōteki 運動的). However, he does not change the name yet. In order to find out what determines Inoue to change the name of space perception, we need to look at the few things that "Space in Japanese architecture" brought to Inoue’s theory. We immediately notice that in this second book, Inoue adds to the chapter dedicated to analyze "movement space" an external perspective, which was not present in the first book. To be more specific, Inoue compares Japanese buildings and the Japanese way of conceptualizing space inside these buildings with the attitude toward space in China6 and Western Europe7 in the same period. We can assume here that this comparison made it clear for Inoue that the fact that space perception during the second part of the feudal Japan emphasized movement was not only its essential features, but also what makes it Japanese – so he chose to change the name. Therefore we can say that described as "architectural space", space perception is regarded from an "internal" point of view, the result of a long historical evolution inside Japanese culture. But as "movement space", while still being the result of a long historical evolution, it is defined as "Japanese", contrasting with external, non-Japanese perceptions. This is why we think that Inoue's theory is a very good tool for our research that aims to point out the very "Japanese" features of the Japanese garden.

4 Inoue (1985), p. 143. 5 Id., pp. 170-171. 6 Representative of the Chinese architecture, he analyzes the Forbidden City in Peking. (Id., pp. 138-141). The Chinese influence on Japanese architecture is well known, and we can see it today too. Here we have to point out the observation that Inoue makes about this influence, by saying that over the years Chinese designs were introduced into Japan on several occasions bringing important changes to Japanese architecture, but each time the Japanese character proved stronger and transformed the Chinese original, rejecting after all the geometrical space (Id., p. 148). 7 Representative of Western Europe, he analyzes the German Palace of Karlsruhe (Id., pp. 138-141).

215 He then also shapes the characteristics of "movement space" in contrast with space perception as per the two cultures above, namely geometrical space based on Cartesian coordinates. Therefore, after analyzing concrete examples of buildings, Inoue summarizes his observations about "movement space" in the following three characteristics, organized by him in contrast with the three characteristics that he previously established in the book for describing Cartesian spaces :

"a Unlike geometrical space, the position (i.e., the coordinates) of compositional elements relative to some overall framework are unimportant; instead, as in topology, what is important is the direct relation between elements. b The spatial components are observed successively, which is induced by bending the movement path or by obstructing the line of vision. c The observation of movement space, therefore, is always postulated on the viewer’s movement, whether actual or intellectualized8. "

We will rearrange the above characteristics in order to make them easier to work with in the next chapters. First we have to retain the essential role of movement: the observation of a "movement space" is always subordinated to the viewer's movement. Next, from bottom to top, we have the successive observation made possible by the two means named by Inoue. As a third characteristic, and a consequence of the first two – when looking from the perspective of the observer, the elements link with each other only in direct relation, their fixed position inside the whole is not important. These characteristics will become easier to follow and more grounded in the next chapters, as we discuss them in relation to different types of gardens, with concrete examples, which will also lead us to the achieving of our stated aim, namely bringing to the light hidden features of Japanese gardens.

2. Features of the kaiyūshiki garden Inoue analyzes the structure of the kaiyūshiki and roji gardens as expressions of "movement space", focusing on their similarities from this specific perspective. In the next two chapters we are first going to follow these considerations and check the fact that this perception forms the conceptual base for the two types of gardens mentioned above. Then we are going to take this one step further, whereby we will point out the differences between the application of "movement space" in the kaiyūshiki and roji gardens, being able in this way to discuss the Japanese character of these gardens on two levels, giving a more complex presentation of their specificities. First, in this section, we will present Inoue’s analysis of the general structure of the kaiyūshiki garden. This type represents such a good example of this space

8 Id., p. 147. For the form of presentation of these three characteristics we chose the style used by Inoue in Inoue (1969), p. 248.

216 perception that Inoue calls it "typical of outdoor movement space9". The Japanese garden historian, Kenkichi Ono presents the kaiyūshiki garden as follows:

"It is a garden the design of which first of all implies the strolling by foot or by boat inside it; its design includes the installation of a tsukiyama10 or a flat ground around a lake, the placement here and there of buildings like palatial residences, tea houses and arbors; the scenery of every part of this garden has a symbolical meaning.11"

We have different theories about the roots of this style of garden: Kenkichi Ono says that it appeared at the beginning of the Edo period (around 1620), by reorganizing the garden that we watch from the veranda – the kanshōshiki garden – so one can step inside it12. Inoue tends toward another theory that says its roots should be looked for earlier, at the end of the Kamakura period and the beginning of the Muromachi period, in the gardens of the Zen priest Musō Soseki (1275-1351). Regardless of when the beginning of this style is placed, researchers usually agree that the most representative gardens are constructed in the second half of the feudal period, with gardens such as the ones from the Imperial villas at Katsura and Shūgakuin. So, as we have already said above, Inoue does not need to make too much effort to show kaiyūshiki gardens as "movement space". He says:

"In stroll gardens like those at Saihōji and the detached palaces, Katsura and Shūgakuin, typically there is a large pond in the center around which are scattered pavilions, tea houses, and Buddhist halls connected by a path; following this path, the visitor encounters each in turn. Along the way are thickets, hillocks, bridges, and beaches. A shadowy, tunnel-like path overhung with trees will suddenly give way to an expanse of space. There the visitor pauses to enjoy the prospect and to view the distant mountains, the framed shakkei (borrowed scenery), and the garden designer’s calculated "highlights". Thus are revealed and then hidden again the succession of changing scenes.13"

We can extract from this text the three characteristics of "movement space". Two of them, the importance of movement inside the space of the garden and the successive observation made possible by two means ― the bending of the path and the obstruction of the view ― are easier to detect. The direct relation between elements can be more difficult to grasp, but we will see that it is included in the structure of the kaiyūshiki garden. Below we will check these characteristics individually.

9 Inoue (1985), p. 166. 10 Artificial mount built inside the Japanese garden. 11 Translated by the author of this article from Ono (2012), p. 173. 12 Id., p. 169. 13 Inoue (1985), pp. 165-166.

217 Movement in the kaiyūshiki garden is an essential element, as we can see already with the definition from Ono. This type of garden is made to be discovered from the inside, while wondering on its path. But this could be said about many French or English gardens too. What is special about the movement inside the kaiyūshiki garden is that this is the only way to know the structure of the garden. In a typical kaiyūshiki garden there is no perspective over the global structure 14 . Also, a typical kaiyūshiki garden is not symmetrical. These two techniques could give the individual an image about parts of the garden that he/she has not yet entered into15. But the kaiyūshiki garden does not give to much information to someone standing outside its space. It is necessary for him/her to walk inside it, to discover it part by part. Then we can pass to the second characteristic, the successive observation, with its two methods of realization. On the successive observation imposed by the structure of the kaiyūshiki garden, Inoue has an explicit remark: "Thus are revealed and then hidden again the succession of changing scenes" to the visitor walking inside the garden. What about the two techniques that make this successive observation possible? About the first of them, the turns and the bending of the path, Inoue remarks that in this type of garden "the observer’s route was a circular one along the perimeter of the pond16". The garden is designed as a space subordinated to the main lake that determines a circular route, to which additional twists are created. The numerous turns make the individual to lose his/her sense of orientation and not being able to grasp the exact structure of the whole. Here we have to add that the technique of turning starts from the entrance of the garden, as we can see in gardens like those from Katsura Villa, Shūgakuin Villa, or Shōseien; because the path turns immediately at the entrance, when standing in front of the gate one cannot see inside the garden. There is no lake at the entrance to impose a change of direction, so one can only assume that this turning merely functions just as a means to create "movement space" by facilitating a gradual reveal of the garden. The second technique facilitating the successive observation is what Inoue calls "the obstruction" of the view. In the paragraph quoted above, Inoue first notices that the viewer walks inside the garden on a shadowy, tunnel like path, made by trees ― we may add fences or pavilion walls. However, Inoue continues by saying that from time to time trees will suddenly give way to an expanse of space, where the viewer will stop for a while to admire the prospect. Hence the kaiyūshiki garden is not a continuous tunnel, which obstructs completely the view of the individual inside it, but it is an alternation between open views with tunnel-like sections. We can recognize this structure at Katsura Villa or

14 Musō Soseki liked to create in his gardens high places for prospects, but as we can see at the gardens of Tenryjūi or Saihōji, the prospect does not reveal in fact the structure of the garden, is a prospect over the city, and one can not guess the shape of the paths of the garden since they are covered by trees. 15 Inoue describes in detail the way an individual, in a symmetrical Cartesian space, can make connections between some parts of the whole by using his/her memory (Inoue (1985), p. 141); we can add here that the anticipation abilities have a similar role. 16 Ibid.

218 Shūgakuin Villa, but also at more recently constructed kaiyūshiki gardens, such as the Shinen garden at the Heian Shrine, laid out in 1895. In all these cases, it actually looks like the one and only purpose for this temporary obstruction of the view is to frame that perfect moment in the walk of the visitor. The temporary blocking of the view makes the expectations of the individual toward the landscape grow, intensifying his/her experience of the garden. That is why here we have to add a little correction to Inoue’s observations. Instead of "obstructing", perhaps it is better to say one’s vision is "controlled", since it is more about showing only some elements in a careful way, and less about completely hiding elements. We should keep this in mind, since it will give us an important hint about the differences between the expression of "movement space" in kaiyūshiki and roji gardens. We have discussed above two characteristics of "movement space" in kaiyūshiki gardens: the essential role of the movement and the way successive observation is imposed. These lead us to the third characteristic: the emphasis on a direct relation between elements, instead of defining an element based on its position inside the whole, on its connection with an axis or a center as it happens in the Cartesian space17. Inoue says that the various items of the garden are connected one by one on a path and that following this path, the visitor encounters each of them, in turn. In the kaiyūshiki garden there is usually a unique main path, which continues from the entrance to the exit. The individual rarely gets to walk twice on the same ground when visiting a kaiyūshiki garden. So once an objective is passed － which can be a building but also a certain landscape of the lake － the visitor is not supposed to go back to it. If we add to this the control of the view and the turns and bends on the path, we realize that the individual might actually get lost very quickly in the garden, having difficulty to tell his/her position inside the garden, and therefore to place the element that is in front of him/her inside the whole structure. All that the individual can do is at most connect the present position with the prior objective, assuming that the number of turns and the bending angle of the path do not make that too hard. We can recognize the above structure with three characteristics of "movement space" in many kaiyūshiki gardens, older and newer, such as Kenrokuen, the garden at the Heian Shrine, or the gardens at the Imperial Villas of Katsura and Shūgakuin. For example, inside the garden from Heian Shrine there is a tunnel made by trees on both sides, a tunnel that breaks from time to time － which means that there are no planted trees there － and in these breaks one can see in turn different elements like the covered bridge Taiheikaku, the stepping stones Garyūkyō, or the Shōbikan with its traditional architecture. After turning several times from the entrance, the viewer arrives at the northern extremity of the Toshinen pond, and he/she sees for the first time the covered bridge. Then walking farther along the Seihō pond, he/she notices a different dynamism of this landscape for every step he/she makes, the asymmetry of the objects inside the garden having an important role here. After crossing the

17 More about the way the Cartesian space imposes a clearly defined relation between the elements and an axis or a center at Id., pp. 138-141.

219 covered bridge the visitor arrives to the exit, unable to draw a schema of the garden he/she just saw, but being able to say that he/she saw the covered bridge after the Garyūkyō, and that the exit was close to the covered bridge. The viewer will not only link the positions of the objectives in the garden two by two, as he/she sees them, but he/she will also appreciate a scenery with its specific dynamism by compering it with the one he/she just saw. This is the kaiyūshiki garden as an expression of "movement space". Its structure is displayed gradually, by the views shown in a controlled manner, only if the viewer is willing to move every time a little further forward on a pre- established path. The European visitor, used to the Cartesian space, should renounce an eventual desire to acknowledge the whole structure of the space, and he/she should just admire the landscape in front of him/her, observing at most its differences from the previous landscape.

4. Features of the roji garden For the roji garden, Inoue makes a very similar description to that he made for the kaiyūshiki garden. If we agree with Inoue that a typical kaiyūshiki garden is a very accurate expression of "movement space", we think the analysis for roji should go a step further, and bring to light the particularities that roji has as a "movement space". Kenkichi Ono defines roji as "the space that leads to the tea room18". The roji is therefore the garden adherent to the tea house. The earliest roji is said to have been built by the tea master Takeno Jōō (1502-1555) and was just a narrow corridor, moving the passage to the tea room from the veranda down to the ground. The shape that we have today of roji it is said to be based on a design by Sen no Rikyu (1522-1591), the tea master that also established the actual form of the Way of Tea19. Roji has a very strong functional side, its main purpose being to serve as the perfect compliment to the venue of a chaji 20 . The particular functional characteristic of the roji and its strong relation to the tea room and the Way of Tea will lead us to the specific characteristics of this structure as a movement space. First we have to check the areas of shared commonality with the kaiyūshiki garden, as pointed by Inoue. Inoue says:

"In the tea garden the waiting arbor (machiai), toilet (setchin), inner gate, wash basin, and stone lantern are located here and there alongside the path of steppingstones leading to the tea house, so that guests encounter each successively.21"

18 Translated by the author of this article from Ono (2012), p. 143. 19 Often known as Tea Ceremony or Chanoyu in Europe, but the Urasenke school prefers the denomination "Way of Tea", which is the translation for Chadō. 20 茶事 complex tea gathering. 21 Inoue (1985), pp. 164-165.

220 As with the kaiyūshiki garden, the roji is also a space meant to be walked inside, so we have here too the essential element of "movement space" – the movement itself. Then Inoue refers also to the successive observation of the objects or of the landscapes of the garden, and to one of the two ways to make it possible, namely the obstruction of vision. Inoue says that the functional elements of roji are hidden by the trees and they are seen by the visitor as he/she advances inside the garden only for a short period, and they then disappear again between the trees. Therefore, here it seems like the roji implies a similar way of appreciation to that of kaiyūshiki garden. About the turns and bends in the path, the other way of creating successive observation, Inoue adds:

"Making the path branch and bend was intended to prevent an overall view of the garden, and thus to keep certain parts of it hidden. (...) Deliberately twisting a path that could be straight and cover the shortest distance is certainly not a rational design solution, but like the arrangement of interior space, it was an expression of a certain attitude toward space.22"

This turns are often seen on the roji path, a straight roji being very rare, and Inoue points out that it is hard to find a practical meaning for this structure, so this must be the exactly the expression of a certain attitude toward space. We have to add here that these kinds of turns can also be found in the roji as well as the kaiyūshiki garden from the entrance of the garden, so that the viewer is not able to take a glance inside the roji from outside its gate. From these two characteristics – movement and successive observation – we could deduce the third characteristic in the same way we did in the previous chapter for the kaiyūshiki garden. However, we think that the role of the obstruction of the view as well as the bends in the path should be interpreted in a slightly different way for roji. As a consequence, the third characteristic – the direct relation between elements – while we agree it describes also the structure of roji, we think it has a different application than that of the kaiyūshiki garden. For example, if we take a look at two typical examples of these two styles, Heian Shrine’s garden and the roji at Konnichian23, we notice an important difference in their basic structure. Inside Heian Shrine’s garden, as we have seen, the tunnel made by trees reveals from time to time different scenery. However, the tunnel of the Konnichian roji does not break out to the exterior. The functional objects needed for the chaji are all placed on the side of the path, or on a little branch of the main path, always inside the tunnel. That is why we believe the two ways of blocking the view should be distinguished, and we think that the term "obstruction24", used for both by Inoue, applies only to the roji, which entirely separates the individual from the exterior, hiding all distracting elements. While

22 Id., p. 165. 23 The main tea room of the Urasenke tea family, located in Kyoto, built by Sen Sōtan (1578-1658) as a retirement place. 24 遮断

221 for the kaiyūshiki garden we have already proposed the term "controlling" the view, since the latter is about hiding only temporary, with the main focus on showing, but in a controlled manner. In this way, we realize that the roji is basically a closed tunnel, from the entrance up to its final point, the tea room. In addition to this, in a typical roji, the trees and other elements from the garden must never be gaudy, they must not have unusual shapes, colors, strong perfume, nor be discordant in any way. Therefore, the roji can be described as not very exciting visually, even monotone, as observed also by the architect Günter Nitschke. He goes as far as calling roji a "’boring’ tunnel25", in his analysis of the roji from Shisendō. His point is that this lack of stimuli combined with the turns and bends on the path makes the individual feel that time is passing slower so that the goal – the tea room – feels further away, and the rather short path of the roji feels longer. In this way, the long expected tea room, otherwise very simple and humble, is more enjoyed by the visitor. And this is maybe the feeling of many non-Japanese visitors when walking on a roji. However, we believe that the interpretation of the structure of the roji should take into consideration – in addition to its actual proximity to the tea room – also its conceptual connection with the Way of Tea and its role in the chaji. It is through the roji that the guests invited to the tea gathering make their way to the tea room, they purify their hands and mouth on the way at the tsukubai, it is here that they are greeted for the first time by the host. After they have the meal in the tea room, they exit to the roji again. During all this time, they have to maintain the same spiritual attitude from the tea room. We can grasp this spiritual attitude that extends from the tea room to the garden, from the strong relationship between the Way of Tea and Zen Buddhism. Starting already from Murata Jukō (1423-1502), until the present day, almost all tea masters practice Zen at temples like Daitokuji or Nanzenji. "Tea and Zen have the same taste 26 " is a very frequently used expression in the tea world. The implications of Zen in the tea gathering and in daily practice of apprentices are many and complex, and we want to focus on only one aspect of it, which we think is relevant for our purpose: focusing on the present moment. A Zen phrase very often used on the scroll27 hung in the tokonoma28 is "hibi kore kōjitsu29", which can be explained as "every day is different, some are good, and some are bad, but regardless of good/bad we should consider this present day as the perfect day". Also the name of Urasenke’s

25 Nitschke (1993), p. 37. 26 茶禅一味 27 In 『南方録』(Nampōroku) there is a phrase that says:「掛物ほど第一の道具はなし」 "there is no utensil more important than the scroll" (in the tea room), and in"Chadō daijiten" the scroll is referred as "一座建立の本尊", the principal element of a tea gathering (p. 242), which gives us an idea about the importance of these phrases written on the scroll. 28 Japanese traditional alcove. 29 日々是好日 from the book of koans『碧巌録』(Hekiganroku).

222 tea house, "Konnichian30" has a similar meaning: "the hermitage of the present day". The phrase the most famous at an international level expressing the adequate spiritual attitude for the tea room is maybe "ichi go ichi e31" which could be translated as "there is only one chance to meet with this particular moment". It refers for example at the fact that the guests and the host meet in these exact conditions only one time, or that the guest sees the objects the host has prepared for him/her, in this exact combination, only one time. That is why living in the present moment throughout the entire gathering is essential32. This same attitude is the goal in the daily practice of the Way of Tea. We will now return to our analysis of the expression of "movement space" in roji keeping in mind the importance accorded to the focus on the present moment in the Way of Tea. We established that with the roji the view is "obstructed", not only "controlled" as in the kaiyūshiki garden. We now realize that while visiting the kaiyūshiki garden the individual is directed to his/her exterior, to the different landscapes that appear one by one in front of him/her, in the roji the "obstruction of vision" gives the individual no other choice but to turn his/her attention toward himself/herself. In light of the above reflections, the roji structure encourages the focus on being "here now", since it eliminates all distracting elements from view. In this way, the "successive observation" of parts of the space changes in a roji into a repeated awareness of the fact that one is in this specific place at this specific moment, in a "successive experimentation" of individual parts of the whole space. This brings us to the third characteristic of "movement space", one that also takes a new shape. The monotony of roji transports the individual after turning a corner in another space similar to the one he/she has already been into. The turns and the obstruction of the view here too make it difficult to acknowledge one's position inside the whole, but this time recalling an element from his direct connection to a previous one does not act as a factor for pointing out an aesthetic value, but instead it gives to the individual the sensation of the reiteration of the same space, the sensation that he/she is not advancing, as Nitschke pointed out. However, if we take into consideration the spiritual state we mention above, the purpose would not be to grow the visitor’s expectations toward the goal, the tea room, but rather to dissipate this expectations. The individual should renounce this desire of advancing, and just be aware of the present moment, which does not seem to pass so fast in the roji. Maurice Sauzet remarks that in the Japanese garden there are some particular elements, what he calls "kinetic elements", that help the individual ― "even more", since we have seen that structure based on "movement space" does this already ― to focus on the present moment33. He refers mainly to the turns and the bends in the path and sustains that they help the individual to stay in the present moment by making him/her aware of his/her body, which he/she has to

30 今日庵 31 一期一会 inspired the title to the book of Ii Naosuke (1815-1860)『茶湯一会集』. 32 Chadō daijiten, p. 71. 33 Berque, Sauzet (2004), p. 169.

223 turn. But we can think of at least two other kinetical elements specific to roji, the chūmon and the tobiishi34, which require even more clear movement from the individual. Chūmon, gate that separates the two parts of the roji, the outer roji and the inner roji, may require the individual to open and close a hook, lift his/her feet, lower his/her head, or even both at the same time. Tobiishi, stepping stones laid on the path heading toward the tea room, require movements less or more complex depending on their shape. The individual must pay attention at every moment to step on a specific spot, otherwise he/she may ruin the beautiful moss or the raked sand which surrounds the stones. Thus, we have seen that the roji is also an expression of "movement space", this space perception giving the Japanese character to its structure, which is a point shared with the kaiyūshiki garden. The roji also has its own specific characteristics, due to the fact that is a garden constructed with a strong relation to the Way of Tea. Therefore the "movement space" has to be adapted and the roji becomes a different expression of this space perception. The visitor to the roji, whether he/she is a guest at a chaji or just a tourist seeing the garden, should let the structure help him/her to focus on the present moment, and should use the elements encountered on the way as a means to bring his/her attention back to focusing on the "here and now".

5. Features of the kanshōshiki garden We analyzed above the "movement space" in two garden types that by definition impose movement. However, a part of the Japanese gardens existing today is not meant to be walked in. They are viewed from the exterior, from a veranda, and they are most often named with the general denomination "kanshōshiki35", which presents them as being meant to be admired from an external point, implying the lack of movement inside their space. Therefore, at first glance, this type does not seem to be an expression of the "movement space". In this section we will see that in fact this gardens are also an expression of "movement space", if not a very obvious one. The analysis of this type of gardens gives us the chance to point out the features of another kind of Japanese garden that clearly requires another sort of approach from the other two already discussed, but also allows us to show that movement space perception can be hidden in unexpected structures, giving them a Japanese character, a fact useful for any future discussion of other Japanese garden styles. We should check first Kenkichi Ono’s statement:

"In the same Azuchi-Momoyama period, the final form of the architectural style shōin establishes, and with this style the position of the most important guest in the room is settled. As a result, the idea of the "shōin

34 Although these two elements may be encountered in other types of gardens too, they are elements specific to roji. 35 Most often written 観賞式.

224 garden", with a strong awareness of an scenery viewed from a pre- established seated position, takes shape.36"

And latter inside the same chapter, Ono adds:

"In this type of meeting room, develops the garden zakanshiki, which attaches the biggest importance to the view from the seated position settled in this inevitable way. (...) We have to pay attention to the fact that "shōin garden" is not a garden type, but a classification based on the relation with the building.37"

Shōin style, the architectural style representative of the feudal period, introduces a significant part of the elements that we consider today as traditionally Japanese, such as the tatami and the alcove with the chigaidana38. And it also brings a strict hierarchy of the inside space: the room has an upper part (kamiza) and a lower part (geza), and inside the kamiza there is a fixed position, with the back to the alcove, where the highest ranked person sits. Attached to the shōin building, a garden will also be built in order to be admired from this fix place in the room. Ono gives two denominations to this garden. From the point of view of its attachment to the building designed in the shōin style, it can be called a "shōin garden", but since most of these shōin gardens are designed to give importance to the fixed point they are supposed to be viewed from, Ono proposes the denomination "zakanshiki39", which could be translated as "watched from a seated position". In our text we chose to use the most frequent term, "kanshōshiki", but we keep in mind that it is not just a garden admired from the exterior, but the fixed viewing position is the essential characteristic of its design. To illustrate this style, Ono gives the example of the Ni no Maru garden at Nijō Castle, built in 1602-1603 and designed to be admired from its north side, from a private room40, and from its east side, from the great hall of the castle41. In 1626, when the Emperor Go-Mizunoo visits the shogun, an new residence is built for him at the south of the garden. On this occasion the design of the garden is reorganized so it looks good also when regarded from the south42. Here we have to point out that this example, along with the above words of Ono reveal the reason behind a Japanese custom that may seem unusual, which is placing the visitors, Japanese or non-Japanese, in a specific position when visiting such a garden. Experiencing this fact made probably the most of us think that it is the same garden, it does not seem to change too much when viewed from one place more to the right or left. But we see above that this fixed point is

36 Translated by the author of this article from Ono (2012), p. 142. 37 Id., p. 163. 38 Shelf in steps placed to the side of the alcove (Chadō daijiten, p.737). 39 座観式 40 黒書院 41 大広間 42 Ono (2012), pp. 163-165.

225 essential for an appropriate appreciation of the kanshōshiki garden. Stepping away from the recommended position changes the image of the garden that one sees, and the garden shows a different face then the one it was designed to show. More than an independent item, the value of this garden is to be appreciated from the relation it has with the viewing individual, with his/her position relative to the garden ― with his/her movement in front of the garden. We realize therefore that kanshōshiki garden has in fact an important relationship with movement, a relationship contained in the existence of a vantage position for observation. From here, the three characteristics of "movement space" included in the conceptual structure of the kanshōshiki garden start to come to light. Therefore, in the case of the kanshōshiki garden we do not have movement inside the garden, but the exterior movement in front of the garden has an important role in its appreciation. When the gardens are wide enough and the veranda in front is also quite large, the change of this small landscape with the viewer’s movement is often exploited for an aesthetic purpose. We can recall here the example of one of the most renowned gardens in Japan, Ryōanji. Its 15 stones cannot be seen all at once, and they combine in a different way as its viewer changes his/her position on the veranda43. Ryōanji can be considered an extreme example, a rather explicit one, since in many kanshōshiki gardens the elements that appear and disappear with the movement are fewer and more difficult to acknowledge, the changing being less evident. But the structure of Ryōanji gives us a very good idea of the fact that the reason behind choosing a unique position as the best for watching the garden, is the sensibility to the changes in the landscape of the garden with the individual’s movement. This is, in fact, the admittance of a successive observation for the kanshōshiki garden, which is the second characteristic of "movement space". Now a few words about the two ways of making this successive observation possible. About turns and bends on a specific path there is not much to say here. But we do encounter some forms of controlling the view. First of all, the fact that there is a certain point from which the garden is meant to be viewed is already a way to control the view of the observer. Then we have here also, as we had in the previous two styles of garden, a certain blocking of the view. In this case, the view is neither temporarily blocked or completely obstructed, but there is a certain way of handling the reality so the scene as seen from the fixed position is the best possible view of the garden. We therefore have the side framing of the image, wich may be realized by some pillars on the veranda (like the garden at Manshuin), or by some trees or trimmed shrubs (like the garden at Entsuji). There is also the shakkei, a Japanese garden technique realized by controlling the view. This is defined by Ono as "the technique for garden design that gathers the close scenery of the garden with the far scenery outside its grounds, in a unitary and coherent garden scenery, by combining them in an ingenious way44". This technique is used in various types of gardens, not only kanshōshiki type (Ex: The

43 Takahiko Iimura makes in 1989 two short movies in which he presents in details the way the garden from Ryōanji changes with the movement of the viewer: MA: Space/Time in the Garden of Ryoan-ji, and The Making of in Ryoan-ji. 44 Translated by the author of this article from Ono (2014), p. 13.

226 Golden Pavilion’s garden, Shūgakuin’s garden, Murinan), but is very often exploited in this particular style, since it is easier to control the way the natural element situated far away enters in the field of vision of the observer when he/she is supposed to sit in a defined position. Shakkei is used, for example, at the garden at Entsuji and gives depth to the otherwise its relatively small space. The view of the observer is directed toward a natural element outside the garden ― in this case Mount Hiei, but it can also be the sea, or a pagoda ― by arranging the design of the garden so the shakkei element fits perfectly inside it and by excluding from the view the undesired elements from the middle plan, that separate in reality the garden from the element situated far away ― in the case of Entsuji, the undesired elements are hidden behind trees. We should check now the third characteristic of "movement space", which is the direct relation between the elements. The kanshōshiki garden lacks a clear tunnel to make it impossible for the individual to place each element inside the whole. From the moment the viewer steps on the veranda in front of the kanshōshiki garden, he/she sees the entire space. However, here too the direct connection of the elements has its importance in the appreciation of the garden. As we have seen above, we have one particular image of the garden that is considered the most beautiful of all the images that appear in front of the visitor when he/she moves. In order to acknowledge this, paying attention to the direct connection between the elements is indispensable. It does not matter that they are all just images of the same whole, we need to acknowledge the subtle differences between the face of the garden viewed from the suggested position and the face viewed when stepping aside from that position. In this way we have seen that the characteristics of "movement space" are in fact included in the structure of the kanshōshiki garden too, having though a different expression from the other two garden types. So in order not to miss this characteristic of the kanshōshiki garden, the visitor should pay attention to the details of a landscape that changes with his/her movement in front of the garden. In this way, the visitor may understand the preference for one of these images and appreciate the garden viewed from that specific location.

Conclusion In this paper our aim was to make explicit the features of the Japanese garden as they appear from the analysis of the basic structure of three main types of gardens: the kaiyūshiki, roji and kanshōshiki gardens. In order to do this, we showed that these gardens include in their structure the three characteristics of "movement space", which, according to Inoue, is the perception that gives the specific character to Japanese architecture: the observation of the garden is postulated on the movement of the viewer; the structure is observed gradually; the elements and their positioning is defined by the direct relation between them, not by their relation with the whole. We then checked the structure of the kaiyūshiki garden and we have seen that it is a representative example of Japanese space perception. We then analyzed the structures of the roji and kanshōshiki gardens and discovered that they are also expressions of "movement space", which gives them a fundamental Japanese character, something they

227 share with the kaiyūshiki garden, but we have also seen that each one of these two has its own specific characteristics that determine different expressions of "movement space" using the same basis point. By proving that "movement space" perception is a conceptual foundation for these three types of gardens, we have pointed out several features of the Japanese garden, namely that they ask for a specific approach from their visitors, as fallows: first, at the most general level, rather then considering the garden as an independent whole, designed to be valued in and of itself, one should know that these three types of Japanese garden are meant to be valued in connection with the movement of the individual. The visitor to a Japanese garden should be aware of the importance of changes, and this change is sometimes very subtle, from one image of the garden to another, as he/she sees them while he/she moves through the garden. Thirdly, the latter gives him/her the possibility to acknowledge the rather significant degree of independence for each landscape, or space cellule, understanding and appreciating the one in front of him/her only through the relation it has with to the prior position, without relating to the whole. On an even more concrete level, we pointed out also what we think that are the specific characteristics for each type of garden, seen as "movement space". The kaiyūshiki garden reveals its space gradually, and should be admired as a collection of photographs, that appear one by one as we advance inside its space. Roji, with its strong relation to the tea room and the Way of Tea, is meant to prepare the individual for the tea gathering, helping him/her to purify not only his/her hands, but also his/her mind, with a structure that encourages the focus on the present moment, joining the elements that appear on the way and require certain moves from the individual. The kanshōshiki garden, although often a rather small space, is a garden showing different faces to the viewer, one of those expressing usually the best of the garden. As we have already pointed out, these three types of garden take their shape in the second part of feudal Japan, when ― along with "movement space" ― a large part of what we call today traditionally Japanese appeared, or became clearly defined. This is why we believe that the structure of "movement space" continues to be at the base of a significant number of gardens constructed in modern or contemporary Japan, no mater how strong the influences from the outside world. Keeping in mind what was discussed in this paper will serve to enrich the experience of the visitor to many of the Japanese gardens existing today.

REFERENCES

Berque, A., M. Sauze. 2004. Le sens de l'espace au Japon, Arguments. Iguchi K., Suemune H., Nagashima F., Tsutsui H. (comp. & eds.). 2010. Chadō daijiten, Tankōsha.

228 Inoue, M. 1961. Nihon jōdai kenchiku ni okeru kūkan no kenkyū: keitai, kinō no shoten yori mita haichi・heimen nado no sōgōteki kōsatsu, Private Press. Nihon kenchiku no kūkan. 1969. Kajima Shuppankai (with its English translation: Space in Japanese Architecture, Weatherhill, 1985) Nitschke, G. 1993. From Shinto to Ando, Academy Editions and Ernst & Sohn. Ono, K. 2012. Teien ― kūkan no bi no rekishi 2009, Reprint, Iwanami shinsho. Ono, K. 2014. "Nihon teien to ma" Shimei 34, in Ma, Special Edition (2014/3): 10-14.

229 YURIWAKA: ON THE POSSIBLE ROUTE OF THE STORY’S TRANSMISSION

Saida KHALMIRZAEVA*

Abstract: Central Asian Alpomish and the Japanese story about Yuriwaka1 not only share remarkable motivic similarities, but also demonstrate a parallel in the sequence in which the motifs occur within the plot. In both stories the hero, who left his land to fight an enemy, returns home after years of seclusion only to find his family being harassed by traitors. His appearance has changed beyond recognition, which is why no one, even his loyal servant, can recognize him. For a time he observes what has occurred during his absence, finally revealing his identity by stringing his distinctive bow, punishing the traitors and reuniting with his family. The current paper explores the possibility of mutual influence between Alpomish and Yuriwaka, applying the principles of the hypothesis of diffusion of folk tales. Based on the results of the comparative research and analysis of Alpomish, Yuriwaka, and two stories, the Odyssey and The Tale about Good Prince and Bad Prince, which have long been considered to be possible sources for the Yuriwaka story in Japan, the paper proposes a new hypothesis on the origin of Yuriwaka and the possible route of the story’s transmission. Keywords: story transmission, Yuriwaka, The Odyssey

1. Hypothesis on the origin of Alpomish

Alpomish is one of the most famous narratives in Central Asia. The story about Alpomish, a hero of extraordinary strength, has been transmitted orally for centuries by professional storytellers, bakhshi, but its origin remains unclear.

1.1 The Odyssey and Alpomish

The proposed approximate time of Alpomish’s origin is the eleventh century A.D. at the latest, and this dating is explained in relation to the story about Bamsi Beyrek. Bamsi Beyrek, the content of which resembles Alpomish in detail and contains proper names similar to those found in Alpomish, is included in the compilation named The Book of Dede Korkut. The compilation includes oral stories that circulated among the Turkic peoples from the ninth to fourteenth centuries. Some of the stories are very old and supposedly date back to the days when the Turkic peoples lived in Central Asia. It is known that the Turkic peoples migrated westward and spread into Western Asia and Eastern Europe during

* Hosei University, Graduate School of Humanities 1 The story about Yuriwaka will further be referred to as Yuriwaka.

230 Turkic migrations between the ninth and twelfth centuries. It is possible that some oral stories emerged in Central Asia and then were transmitted by the Turkic peoples from Central to Western Asia. Bamsi Beyrek, or its prototype, Alpomish, is considered to have a Central Asian origin, and to have been born not later than the eleventh century A.D. (Bartold 1930; Zhirmunsky & Zarifov 1947; Zhirmunsky 1960; Zhirmunsky 1962). As to the place of origin, there exist two hypotheses on the origin of Alpomish. They both were proposed by a Russian literary historian and linguist, Victor Zhirmunsky (1891-1971). According to the first, the story about Alpomish was born among the Turkic peoples of Central Asia. According to the second, the story was born in Altay, the region inhabited by the Turkic peoples between the sixth and eighth centuries A.D. This hypothesis is based on the fact that a story similar in content to Alpomish was collected from this region. However, Zhirmunsky leaves open the possibility that the story about Alpomish was transmitted to Altay from Central Asia. Regardless of the exact place of origin, be it Altay or Central Asia, Zhirmunsky believed that the story emerged among the Turkic peoples. At the same time, Zhirmunsky pointed out that Alpomish shared remarkable motivic similarities with the ancient Greek story the Odyssey, which already existed in written form around the sixth century B.C. Indeed, in both stories, the Odyssey and Alpomish, we can find many common motifs, such as “the hero returns home and saves his wife,” “the hero returns home disguised and strings his distinctive bow.” These similarities appear in the second half of the story, in the part where the hero returns to his country after years of adventures and captivity in an isolated place. In both stories we find many common details: the hero has a loyal servant, the hero has a mark on his body, the hero is recognized by an animal, and the hero has a son. Of course, these motifs are not unique to the Odyssey and Alpomish. We can find many folk tales with similar motifs in different parts of the world. Researchers, such as Ivan Sozonovich, Georgy Potanin and Ivan Tolstoy collected dozens and dozens of Western and Eastern tales with similar motifs. Based on the comparative analysis of all these tales, Zhirmunsky came to conclusion that only two of them, the Odyssey and Alpomish, demonstrate remarkable similarity of motifs and their order within the plot in the part where the hero returns to his homeland. However, Zhirmunsky maintained that these similarities could not be attributed to mutual influence between the Odyssey and Alpomish, since any direct contact between the two stories was difficult to explain either historically or geographically. Zhirmunsky postulated that the two stories developed based on some ancient motifs that circulated among different peoples who lived in different parts of the world, and that the Odyssey and Alpomish were born in ancient Greece and Central Asia independently. Zhirmunsky’s hypothesis has never been questioned before. However, in his statement Zhirmunsky clearly ignored one important historical fact: Greek culture long influenced the geographical area in which Alpomish is disseminated. It is not clear why Zhirmunsky completely disregarded this fact in his research: was it because the contact between the two cultures, Greek and Central Asian, was something that happened back in the past, many centuries ago, or was

231 it just because he underestimated the role of Greek influence on the culture of the Central Asian peoples? Central Asia, which is sometimes called the crossroad of civilizations due to its geographical location, experienced many expansionist wars. Throughout its history the region has been conquered and ruled by many different nations and was a part of many great empires. A number of cultural and trade routes passed through the region on their way from West to East and from South to North, contributing to the development of the distinctive multifaceted culture of Central Asia. In the fourth century B.C. the region was conquered by Alexander the Great, and later became a part of the Greco-Bactrian Kingdom. It is thought that during this period Central Asia experienced a significant Greek influence. With the fall of the Greco-Bactrian Kingdom, as time went by, Central Asia lost direct connection to the Greek civilization, but the influence of Greek culture did not cease completely even in the later centuries. The Odyssey is one of the most famous epics of Ancient Greece and a symbol of Greek culture. It tells a story of the man who had to leave his home for war and wander for years till he finally returned home. It is a type of a story that warriors who left their homes and families would want to hear during their long campaigns to faraway countries. The Odyssey could have easily been brought to other regions by storytellers who entertained the armies of the Greeks during campaigns. Or the story could have come to other regions later as a part of Greek culture that spread in the conquered territories. It could have been incorporated in the folk traditions of local peoples, and, going through some changes or adaptation to a different cultural environment, could have been reborn as Alpomish.

1.2 The Tale about Good Prince and Bad Prince and Alpomish

Not only Alpomish shares similarities with the Odyssey, but also has motifs similar to a Buddhist tale, The Tale about Good Prince and Bad Prince,2 which is included in two Buddhist sutras, Da fangbian fo bao-en ching 大方便仏報恩経 (The Repaying Debts of Gratitude Sutra) and Hsien-yū ching 賢愚経 (The Sutra of the Wise and the Foolish).3 The first sutra, Da fangbian fo bao-en ching, is thought to have been compiled or translated from the original language some time around the third, or, partially later, around the sixth century A.D. It is not clear whether the Chinese version of the sutra known today is a translation of the version that originated in India, or a compilation of some different Buddhist texts that came to China

2 The name The Tale about Good Prince and Bad Prince is a title that will be used in the current research to refer to the tale about two princes. The title is a translation based on a Chinese translation of characters’ names 善友悪友 seen in Da fangbian fo bao-en ching, and 善事悪事 seen in Hsien-yū ching. 3 The motivic similarity between the two stories only attracted my attention, because I was acquainted with the comparative research on Yuriwaka conducted by Japanese scholars. Further research on The Tale about Good Prince and Bad Prince revealed that the story was known not only in China and Japan, but also in Central Asia.

232 separately, or even a Buddhist apocrypha written in China (Supalaset 2009). If the exact date and place of origin of Da fangbian fo bao-en ching is not clear, in the case of Hsien-yū ching the date, place of origin and even the circumstances of the sutra’s compilation are determined. Seng-yū 僧祐 (445-518), a Buddhist monk, gives precise information on the origin of the sutra in his Ch’u san-tsang chi chi 出三蔵記集, known in its English translation as The Collected Records on the Making of the Tripitaka. This source, “the first and the most important catalog of Chinese Buddhist texts,” was compiled between 505 and 515 (Mair 1993: 3). According to The Collected Records on the Making of the Tripitaka, there was once an assembly in the Great Monastery in Khotan.4 Eight monks from Liang-chou travelled there and listened to various followers of the teachings, who “preached on the sutras and lectured on the vinaya, teaching according to their specialties” (Mair 1993: 3). Later the monks returned to Liang-chou and put into writing everything they heard at the assembly during the time of Emperor Wen (reigned 424-452). This is how Hsien- yū ching came into existence (Mair 1993: 5). The original content of sermons and lectures at the assembly is thought to have been delivered in one of the Central Asian languages, possibly Khotanese. 5 It is also possible that the content of preaches and lectures was originally oral, and only took physical shape in the hands of the Chinese monks (Mair 1993: 6). The Tale about Good Prince and Bad Prince was one of the stories widely spread among the Buddhists of Central Asia. Several manuscripts of the tale exist, and one of them is the manuscript collected by Paul Pelliot from Gansu during his expedition to Central Asia (Tikhonov 1966: 218). The manuscript is known as La version ouigour de l’histoire des princes Kalyanamkara et Papamkara, or the Uighur version of the story about princes Kalyanamkara and Papamkara (Pelliot 1914; Huart 1914). It is written in Old Turkic, and preserved in the archives of the National Library of France under the number 3509. The manuscript is considered to have been written some time between 801 and 1000, and contains only a part of the story about Good Prince. We should note one important fact here: the manuscript is written in Old Turkic, a language that was used for verbal communication rather than for writing among the Uighurs. Chinese was the language for writing, while Turkic was the language of communication (al- Kashgari 1072-1074). The fact that it was translated into the Old Turkic language not only means that it could have been known by the Turkic-speaking population, which is considered to be the creator and maintainer of Alpomish, but also suggests that the story could have been popular among Central Asian Buddhists. There is a possibility that the manuscript was translated from Chinese (Pelliot 1914). However, as already mentioned, the Chinese translation of The Tale about Good Prince and Bad Prince was originally translated into Chinese from texts obtained in Khotan, possibly written or orally transmitted in one of the Central

4 The Kingdom of Khotan is an ancient Buddhist kingdom located on the territory of modern Xinjiang, China. The kingdom existed for about a thousand years, from the first to eleventh centuries. In 1006 it was conquered by the Muslims. 5 Khotanese is a dialect of the Saka language.

233 Asian languages (Mair 1993). Some questions about the origin and circulation of the two sutras and the manuscript still have to be clarified. However, it is clear that The Tale about Good Prince and Bad Prince was known by Central Asian Buddhists at least prior to the mid-fifth century A.D. It is time to mention creators and maintainers of the tradition of storytelling in Central Asia, bakhshi. The word bakhshi can be found in the Uzbek, Turkmen, Kazakh and Kirgiz languages. The meaning of the word, however, differs from country to country. For example, in Uzbekistan and Turkmenistan bakhshi is used only in the case of professional storytellers, while in Kazakhstan it is mostly used to refer to sorcerers or shamans. Though, prior to the Great October Revolution of 1917 bakhshi in Uzbekistan were also involved in activities that could be identified as shamanistic. According to Zhirmunsky and Hodi Zarifov, bakhshi used their string instruments to perform rites of exorcism (Zhirmunsky & Zarifov 1947). But bakhshi known today have nothing to do with shamanism. The only role they play in society today is that of professional entertainers. According to Vasily Radlov, bakhshi is a word used in most of the Turkic languages. In the Uighur language the word bahkshi was used in the nineteenth century for teachers and Buddhist scholars (Radlov 1888-1911). The word bakhshi comes from the Sanskrit word bhikshu,6 which means “teacher.” (Korogli 2015) It is thought that bakhshi have come to Central Asia with Buddhism (Uspenskiy & Belyaev 1928). Even though Uighur is the only language which maintained the direct connection to the original meaning of the word, we can assume that the tradition of bakhshi is related in some way to Buddhism and might have originated in the days when Buddhism was one of the major religions of Central Asia and the cultural ties between the civilization of India and Central Asia were stronger. Words similar to bakhshi, such as bahsih, paksi, paksu, and baksi, can be found not only in Central Asia, but also in Manchuria, Mongolia and Korea. Xinjiang, the territory inhabited by the Uighurs, was under the influence of Buddhism for a longer period of time than the rest of Central Asia, which might give us some clue on the tradition of bakhshi in the past. Today Xinjiang is an autonomous region of China, but it is a part of Central Asia as well. Sometimes the territory is referred to as East Turkestan (lit. land of the Turks). The Uighurs, the major population group of Xinjiang, have close ethnical, linguistic and cultural ties with other Turkic speaking peoples of Central Asia, such as the Uzbeks, the Kazakhs, the Kyrgyz and the Turkmens. Unlike other regions of Central Asia, where Islam suppressed all indigenous religions and beliefs, the territory occupied by the Uighurs prospered as a cultural center, where different religions, languages and cultures coexisted and intermixed for many centuries. The territory of modern Khotan and Gansu, which were inhabited by the Uighurs, were centers of Buddhist thought (Mair 1993). The Uighurs, who lived in the

6 The original word could be bhikchu, or bhikkhu, which means a mendicant scholar or a follower of Buddha. It is transliterated into Chinese as biqiu 比丘, and translated as seng 僧 (Eitel 1904: 31).

234 region, not only translated original sutras and created Buddhist apocrypha, but also contributed greatly to the transmission of Buddhist doctrine in the region. The Uighur Buddhists are thought to have spread the content of sutras and sermons in a form that commoners, who were mostly uneducated, would be able to understand (Bartakhanova 1999: 17). Folk poetry was used by the Uighurs as one of the ways to spread Buddhism.

Poetry with Buddhist content was sophisticated and explained basic concepts of the Teaching in a simple manner. It was one of the most effective tools for Buddhist propaganda among the Uighurs. Taking the form of a folk poem, it could touch peoples’ souls, unlike canonical treatises, which were meant for the reason of the reader and demanded a certain level of knowledge and erudition (Bartakhanova 1999: 17 (translated from Russian)).

We can assume that The Tale about Good Prince and Bad Prince could have shifted from religious sermons to folk poetry in a similar process of dissemination of Buddhist teaching, and become one of the sources for Alpomish. Considering the fact that the bakhshi have a relationship to Buddhism, Buddhist preaching could be regarded as one of the possible routes of transmission of The Tale about Good Prince and Bad Prince’s content into the repertory of the bakhshi.7

1.3 Hypothesis on the origin of Alpomish

Alpomish, or its prototype, could have emerged as a result of combination of two independent stories, the Odyssey and The Tale about Good Prince and Bad Prince, in the tradition of the Central Asian bakhshi. The similarities and differences between the Odyssey, The Tale about Good Prince and Bad Prince and Alpomish are shown in TABLE 1. As we can see from the table, common motifs, such as “Birth,” “Sleep,” “Shepherd,” “Instrument,” “Messenger bird” and “Foreign princess,” can be found in The Tale about Good Prince and Bad Prince and Alpomish. These motifs appear in both stories in the same sequence. It is clear also that at some point Alpomish evolves into the Odyssey. In The Tale about Good Prince and Bad Prince the hero returns home, reunites with his family, forgives his brother Bad Prince and they all live happily ever after. In contrast, in the Odyssey the hero disguises himself, returns home hiding his identity from everyone strings his bow and punishes those who mistreated his family in his absence. In this part of the Odyssey we find such motifs as “Stealing the hero’s wife,” “Servant,” “Recognition by a mark,” “Recognition by an animal,” “Son,” “Bow” and “Revenge

7 Note: doston (a term used to refer to long narrative pieces in the repertory of bakhshi in Uzbekistan), which are very similar in form and sometimes content to those found in other regions of Central Asia, were also performed by the Uyghurs. See Reichl (1989).

235 and punishment.” All these motifs can be seen in Alpomish as well. Moreover, in Alpomish they appear in the same sequence as in the Odyssey. It is clear that Alpomish combines features of both the Odyssey and The Tale about Good Prince and Bad Prince. The part of Alpomish preceding the return of the hero to his country shares motifs with The Tale about Good Prince and Bad Prince, and the rest of the story resembles the Odyssey in detail. When talking about The Tale about Good Prince and Bad Prince, we should note one important characteristic of the story related to its origin. Researchers usually refer to the general content of the tale omitting one important fact: the tale is a framed story. There is a short introduction and conclusion to the tale about the two princes. The tale about two princes is not just a story about the adventures of a prince, but is a metaphor of the relationship between Buddha and his cousin and brother-in-law Devadatta. Buddha, who appears in the introduction and conclusion of the tale, says that despite all the bad things Devadatta has done to him, Buddha always forgives him. The tale about the two princes was included in the sutras for a reason: it is a didactic Buddhist tale that teaches followers about love and forgiveness. Even if the tale was one of the sources for Alpomish, the essential meaning of the tale has clearly been lost at some point. This could have happened through a combination of The Tale about Good Prince and Bad Prince with some other story about war and revenge, such as the Odyssey. At this point it is impossible to determine an approximate date and the route of transmission of the story about Odysseus. However, it is a fact that the territory of Central Asia was under the influence of the Greek culture in the past. Which is why the possibility of the Odyssey’s transmission to the region along with the Greek culture exists. As to The Tale about Good Prince and Bad Prince, the content of the tale could have entered the repertory of bakhshi as one of the didactic tales preaching about the teachings of Buddha. And then, within the oral tradition of the bakhshi the story could undergo some changes, and gradually evolve into the Alpomish that we know today.

2. Hypothesis on the origin of Yuriwaka

2.1 The story about Yuriwaka

The Japanese story about Yuriwaka is commonly known today through two recorded versions: Yuriwaka Daijin 百合若大臣, a story in the repertory of kōwakamai 幸若舞, one of the performing arts of the Muromachi period, and Yuriwaka Sekkyō 百合若説経, a narrative from the repertory of ichijō イチジョウ ritualists from the Iki islands. Yuriwaka in Japan has a long history of research. In 1906 Tsubouchi Shōyō suggested that the story about Yuriwaka was an adaptation of the Odyssey (1906). Tsubouchi’s hypothesis was questioned by many famous scholars, such as Tsuda Sōkichi, Yanagita Kunio and Takano Tatsuyuki. In his essay Bushi bungaku no jidai, in 1917 Tsuda asserted that the story about Yuriwaka could have developed without any influence from foreign literature (1964). In 1954

236 Watsuji Tetsurō expressed a similar view, suggesting that the story about Yuriwaka was born in Japan independently (1963). Kanaseki Takeo first approached Indian literature in an attempt to find the source of Yuriwaka in 1959. He introduced several Indian and Chinese stories that shared motifs with Yuriwaka: Rāmayāna, Mahabhārāta and The Tale about Good Prince and Bad Prince found in Hsien-yū ching were mentioned among these stories. However, in Mokuba to Sekigyū Kanaseki suggested that similar stories could have developed in different parts of the world based on universal motifs common to different peoples (1975). Unlike Kanaseki, Maeda Hajime considered the possibility of the Indian origin of the story: Yuriwaka could have been influenced by The Tale about Good Prince and Bad Prince found in another sutra Da fangbian fo bao-en ching (1959). Other scholars postulated that Yuriwaka could have been born as a result of fusion between the Odyssey and the tale about two princes.

We may conclude that the Japanese, Indian, and Greek stories share common elements, that the narrative lines of the Japanese and Indian stories are vague approximations of each other, that the narrative lines of the Japanese and Greek stories parallel each other closely, and that Yuriwaka Daijin is essentially the story of Ulysses in a Japanese setting, but embellished with several motifs from an Indian story in the Buddhist Scriptures. The fact that there should be a common denominator in an Indian story points to the possibility, first suggested by Tsuda among Japanese scholars, of a fusion in early times of Greco-Roman and Mahāyāna-Buddhist traditions that might have taken place in Gandhara (Araki 1976: 23).

In his 1977 “Yuriwaka densetsu to nairiku ajia” Ōbayashi Taryō introduced Alpomish as one of the continental stories that shared motifs with Yuriwaka. Fukuda Akira also mentioned the similarities between the two stories in “Tūsei no shinwateki densō: kōga saburō yuriwaka daijin o megutte” (1989). Fukuda introduced a number of different stories in his article, but he did not consider any of them to be a direct source for Yuriwaka. Fukuda suggested that Yuriwaka could have had two sources of origin: one of them was a story related somehow to the tale about Good Prince, and the other was a story about the hero’s beautiful wife, who was being stolen from her husband (1989). Even though the content of Alpomish was introduced in Japan decades ago, and the possible continental origin of the Yuriwaka story has long been a matter of discussion among scholars, a thorough comparative analysis and research aimed at establishing possible connections between Central Asian Alpomish and Japanese Yuriwaka has never been undertaken, possibly due to the lack of information available in Japanese on Central Asian narratives. As shown in the previous section of the current paper, it is clear that Alpomish combines characteristics of both possible sources of Yuriwaka. Thus, Alpomish might be the continental prototype of Yuriwaka that appeared as a result of fusion of the Odyssey and the Buddhist tale about Good Prince.

237

2.2 The Odyssey, The Tale about Good Prince and Bad Prince , Alpomish and Yuriwaka

As already mentioned, the Odyssey and The Tale about Good Prince and Bad Prince have long been an object of special interest in Japanese scholarship as stories that share a number of motifs with Yuriwaka. We will next compare four stories: the Odyssey, The Tale about Good Prince and Bad Prince, Alpomish and Yuriwaka as seen in both Yuriwaka Daijin and Yuriwaka Sekkyō. TABLE 2 (see page 14) shows similarities and differences between the four stories.

Analysis of motifs

We will first analyze the motifs mentioned in TABLE 2. Based on the analysis of the motifs, their combination and function within the plot, we will try to understand the nature of similarities and differences between the four stories.

1. Birth of the hero

Yuriwaka in its kōwakamai version, Yuriwaka Daijin, begins with the description of the hero’s birth. In the other version of the story, Yuriwaka Sekkyō, the hero’s birth is preceded by the sub-motif takara kurabe 宝くらべ (lit. comparing treasures). One day at a big event the hero’s father loses at “comparing treasures” to another man simply because he is childless. Yuriwaka’s father has everything except for children, which is why people fail to show him the respect due to his status and mistreat him. Takara kurabe is followed by another sub-motif, a short scene, in which a saint appears in the dream of the hero’s father and informs him that he will soon have a child. Unlike in Yuriwaka Daijin, the hero’s father in Yuriwaka Sekkyō does not visit a temple in order to ask the goddess to send him a child. Obviously, there is some difference between the two versions. However, in both cases we are dealing with a variation of the same motif: the hero is born to childless parents through the intervention of some supernatural power. This motif can also be seen in Alpomish. In Alpomish we find not only the motif of birth to childless parents, but also an episode resembling takara kurabe of Yuriwaka Sekkyō. Moreover, there is also a scene in which a saint appears in the father’s dream to inform him that he will soon have a child. The Tale about Good Prince and Bad Prince also begins with the motif “Birth of the hero.” The three stories mentioned above, Yuriwaka in its two versions, Alpomish and The Tale about Good Prince and Bad Prince, begin with “Birth of the hero.” Two out of the three stories, Yuriwaka in its Yuriwaka Sekkyō version and Alpomish also have similarities at the level of sub-motifs.

A) Childlessness (The lord is wealthy and powerful, but he is childless). B) Disrespect (That is why the lord is mistreated and disrespected by people).

238 C) Prophecy (A saint appears in the lord’s dream and informs him that he will soon have a child). D) Birth (The long-awaited son is born).

Unlike Yuriwaka, Alpomish and The Tale about Good Prince and Bad Prince, the Odyssey starts with the description of the hero’s captivity on Calypso’s island and his release. After seven years of captivity the hero is finally released at the order of Zeus. He leaves the island on a raft in order to return to Ithaca, but on the way his raft is wrecked by Poseidon, which is why he has to swim to the island of the Phaeacians, his last destination on his ten-year-long journey. There Odysseus is welcomed by the king and the queen, and at the feast at their court he starts telling a long story about all his adventures, which becomes the body of the Odyssey.

2. Great deed, hero’s sleep and isolation

In The Tale about Good Prince and Bad Prince, Alpomish and Yuriwaka we find such a motif as “Hero’s sleep.” In all three stories the hero goes to a faraway country, accomplishes a great deed and then falls asleep. His sleep is unusually deep and becomes the reason for the hero’s isolation. Yuriwaka in Yuriwaka Daijin is left in a deserted place in a very similar way. Yuriwaka is left alone while he is deeply asleep. In Yuriwaka Daijin an unusually deep sleep is attributed to the hero’s extraordinary strength. While in Yuriwaka Sekkyō, the reason for Yuriwaka’s deep sleep is a drink that one of the enemies, a little demon by the name Ibara Dōji, gave him. This situation is very similar to that seen in Alpomish. Alpomish also falls asleep after drinking wine given to him by one of his enemies, an old witch Surkhail, whose children had been killed by Alpomish. As we can see, The Tale about Good Prince and Bad Prince, Yuriwaka and Alpomish not only share such motifs as “Hero’s sleep” and “Isolation,” but they also demonstrate a similarity of narrative structure.

A) Great deed (The hero accomplishes a great deed in a faraway country). B) Sleep (The hero falls asleep). C) Isolation (The hero is left alone in a deserted place).

We should note that in the Odyssey there is a similar motif of “Isolation,” when the hero is kept on the island for a long time. The major difference between the Odyssey and The Tale about Good Prince and Bad Prince, Yuriwaka and Alpomish is in the sequence of motifs and their grouping within the plot. In the Odyssey the motif “Isolation” precedes the motif “Great deed” and is of lesser importance in the plot than in the other three stories.

3. Betrayal and stealing the hero’s wife

In The Tale about Good Prince and Bad Prince, Yuriwaka and Alpomish we find

239 a motif of betrayal by someone who the hero trusts. Good Prince is betrayed by his brother, Bad Prince, who envies his success. Bad Prince leaves Good Prince alone on the island and leaves with the treasure chintamani. In Yuriwaka the hero is left on the island by his two subordinates. Unlike in The Tale about Good Prince and Bad Prince and Yuriwaka, in Alpomish the hero is left in a deserted place not by his brother or subordinate, but by an old witch, Surkhail, who he trusts. Also in Alpomish we find the motif of betrayal by the brother, Ultontoz, but in this case the motif “Betrayal” is linked to the motif “Stealing the hero’s wife.” The motif “Stealing the hero’s wife” can be found in Yuriwaka as well. In Yuriwaka the two brothers, subordinates of Yuriwaka, return home and try to force Yuriwaka’s wife to marry them. Unlike in Yuriwaka and Alpomish, in The Tale about Good Prince and Bad Prince Good Prince this motif cannot be found: Good Prince does not have a wife when he leaves. He only meets his future wife in a faraway country. However, “Stealing the hero’s wife” is a well-known motif of the Odyssey: the wife of Odysseus, Penelope, is forced to choose one of Ithaca’s aristocrats while her husband is absent. As we can see, Yuriwaka and Alpomish combine the two motifs “Betrayal” and “Stealing the hero’s wife,” which can be found separately in The Tale about Good Prince and Bad Prince and in the Odyssey.

4. Enemy turns into an ally

The motif of an enemy turning into the hero’s friend can be found in Yuriwaka and Alpomish. In both stories one of the creatures the hero went to fight against turns into his ally or friend. In Yuriwaka Sekkyō, a ko-oni by the name Ibara Dōji helps Yuriwaka to survive on the island. This motif is not found in Yuriwaka Daijin, but resembles the friendship between Alpomish and Qorajon, who does not only become Alpomish’s friend, but also joins him in a fight against the Kalmyks and even kills his own brothers. The motif “Enemy turns into an ally” can be seen in Alpomish twice. Another episode in Alpomish describes his friendship with an enemy. It can be summarized as follows.

Alpomish is left in a deserted hole alone. One day a shepherd by the name of Qoyqubod approaches the hole because one of his goats has fallen into it. Qoyqubod is in love with the Kalmyk princess Tafkaoim. Alpomish promises to help Qoyqubot win the princess’s heart in exchange for food. Everyday Qoyqubot gives Alpomish one of his goats, sheep or horses, but Alpomish does not fulfill his promise. Qoyqubot complains. Then Alpomish starts to make instruments out of the bones of the animals he ate, and Qoyqubot sells them at the market. Using one of the instrument they eventually lure the princess to the hole where Alpomish lives, and the princess falls in love with Alpomish.

This episode resembles The Tale about Good Prince and Bad Prince.

240 However, unlike in the case of Alpomish, in The Tale about Good and Bad Prince the shepherd is essentially not an enemy, since Good Prince comes to a faraway country to find the chintamani, not to fight against enemies. The shepherd only appears once, in order to give Good Prince the instrument.

5. Messenger bird

The hero, while in isolation, communicates with his family with the help of a bird. This motif “Messenger bird” can be found in The Tale about Good Prince and Bad Prince, Yuriwaka and Alpomish. In Japan the motif “Messenger bird,” taka no fumizukai (lit. messenger falcon), has long been a reason for comparing Yuriwaka to The Tale about Good Prince and Bad Prince. The part of The Tale about Good Prince and Bad Prince describing communication of the hero through a messenger bird can be summarized as follows.

Good Prince had a goose. The king does not believe that his son has died. He sends the goose to look for Good Prince. The goose flies to a faraway country and finds Good Prince there. Good Prince finds the letter his father sent with the goose. Good Prince describes in a letter everything that happened to him and sends the goose back to his father. The king finds out about everything from the letter he received. He punishes Bad Prince and sends messengers to bring Good Prince back.

In Alpomish “Messenger bird” accomplishes the same function: the goose helps the hero to inform his family that he is alive. However, unlike in The Tale about Good Prince and Bad Prince, this does not lead to the hero’s return. In The Tale about Good Prince and Bad Prince and Alpomish, the bird fulfils its function of informant and then disappears. The story does not mention what happened to the bird after the message was delivered. But in Yuriwaka in its both versions, Yuriwaka Daijin and Yuriwaka Sekkyō, the motif is treated as a short tragic story about the hero’s falcon that eventually dies. The message that was brought by the falcon indirectly leads to the release of the hero. Yuriwaka’s wife starts praying for his return after she receives the message, and the prayer helps Yuriwaka to leave the island. Unlike The Tale about Good Prince and Bad Prince, where the story ends soon after the hero’s father sends messengers to the faraway country, in Yuriwaka and Alpomish the narrative evolves into a story about the revenge of the hero, who returns home with his appearance changed. This development is similar to the ending of the Odyssey.

6. Hero’s changed appearance and recognition by an animal

In the Odyssey, Alpomish and Yuriwaka we find the motif “Hero’s changed appearance.” In all three stories the hero returns home unrecognized by anyone and for a while does not reveal his identity on purpose in order to see what has been happening in his absence. No man can recognize the hero whose appearance

241 has changed, except for an animal that used to know him in the past. This motif “Recognition by an animal” can be seen in the Odyssey, Alpomish and Yuriwaka, and it is clear that it is closely related to “Hero’s changed appearance.” When Odysseus returns home, his old dog recognizes him. Alpomish is recognized by an old camel. And Yuriwaka in Yuriwaka Sekkyō is recognized by his horse Onikage. In Yuriwaka Daijin the motif of recognition by the hero’s horse cannot be found.

7. Loyal servant and recognition by the mark

The hero returns to his country and meets his old servant. This motif can be found in the Odyssey, Alpomish and Yuriwaka. The motif “Loyal servant” is in close relation to the motif “Recognition by the mark.” The appearance of the hero changes so that even his loyal servant cannot recognize him. Although the loyal servant cannot recognize the hero by his appearance, he recognizes him by the mark on his body. In the Odyssey two of his loyal servants, Odysseus’s housekeeper Eurycleia and his servant Eumaeus, recognize Odysseus by the scar on his foot. Alpomish proves his identity to his servant Qultoy by showing the mark on his body. In both Yuriwaka Daijin and Yuriwaka Sekkyō we find the motif “Loyal servant,” but “Recognition by the mark” can only be seen in Yuriwaka Sekkyō.

8. Hero’s son

A major difference between Yuriwaka and two other stories, the Odyssey and Alpomish, is in the fact that Yuriwaka does not have children, unlike Odysseus and Alpomish. Odysseus was absent for about twenty years, and when he returns home, his son Telemachus is a grown man. Telemachus plays an important role in the Odyssey. The story starts with an episode in which Telemachus looks for his father: Telemachus meets his father’s friends in an attempt to find out anything about his father’s whereabouts. When Odysseus returns to Ithaca, Telemachus actively participates in his father’s plan for revenge. In the case of Alpomish, the hero’s son Yodgor only appears after Alpomish returns from captivity. Alpomish was absent for only seven years and does not even know he has a son. When Alpomish returns home Yodgor is only seven years old. He does not play an active role in the hero’s plan for revenge, but pulls Alpomish’s bow out of the ground, which is something that even a grown man cannot do.

9. Distinctive bow

In all three stories, the Odyssey, Yuriwaka and Alpomish, the motif “Distinctive bow” is of great importance. The hero’s bow is a symbol of his supernatural power, a proof of his extraordinary nature. The hero returns home disguised, and by stringing his distinctive bow he shows everyone that he has returned. It is interesting to note that the hero’s bow happens to be at home when the hero returns, even though it is one of the most important attributes of a warrior. In the Odyssey there is an explanation for this: Odysseus only used his bow when he

242 was in his country, and did not take with it him on campaigns. It is not clear why Alpomish’s bow is left somewhere on the steppe and is half buried in the ground when he returns. In Yuriwaka Daijin we find the most reasonable explanation: the Beppu brothers took Yuriwaka’s bow while he was asleep and left with it. The motif “Distinctive bow” that appears in the end of the story is described in Yuriwaka and Alpomish in a very similar way. Unlike the Odyssey, where Penelope demands all the suitors to compete at stringing her husband’s bow, in Yuriwaka and Alpomish the hero participates in an event. His bow is only brought to him after he breaks all of the other bows he is given. In the Odyssey, Yuriwaka and Alpomish the hero kills the suitor after stringing his bow, reunites with his family and lives happily ever after. As we can see from the analysis above, the Odyssey and The Tale about Good Prince and Bad Prince are two completely different stories. They have almost no common motifs, except for one: the hero leaves his home and goes to a faraway country looking for adventures. This motif is common to dozens of various stories, which is why it should be disregarded as a similarity in this particular case. It is clear, though, that the two stories, the Odyssey and The Tale about Good Prince and Bad Prince, both share motifs with the Central Asian story Alpomish. Moreover, motifs are grouped within the story and appear in the same sequence. The first half of Alpomish is similar to The Tale about Good Prince and Bad Prince. In both we can find common motifs, such as “the father of the hero is a lord but he is mistreated because of his childlessness,” “the hero is born through the intervention of supernatural power,” “the hero accomplishes a great deed in a faraway country and then falls asleep,” and “the hero communicates with his family with the help of a bird.” The second half of Alpomish resembles the Odyssey in its details, for example, “the hero’s appearance changes,” “the hero has a loyal old servant,” “the hero has a mark on his body,” “the hero has a son,” and “the hero strings his distinctive bow at the end of the story and kills his enemies.” As to Yuriwaka, it has similarities with both the Odyssey and The Tale about Good Prince and Bad Prince, but clearly shares more motifs with Alpomish. And the similarities are even more obvious in the case of Yuriwaka Sekkyō. In the case of Alpomish and Yuriwaka we are dealing not just with random motivic similarities, but with the similarity of the general plot. The two stories have a similar structure: all motifs common to both stories appear in a very similar sequence. The general structure of the two stories can be shown as follows.

A. CHILDLESS LORD B. DISRESPECT C. PROPHECY D. BIRTH THROUGH THE INTERVENTION OF SUPERNATURAL POWER E. GREAT DEED F. SLEEP G. BETRAYAL H. ISOLATION I. HELP OF A LOCAL

243 J. STEALING HERO’S WIFE K. MESSENGER BIRD L. CHANGE OF APPEARANCE M. SERVANT N. RECOGNITION BY A MARK O. RECOGNITION BY AN ANIMAL P. BOW Q. REVENGE AND PUNISHMENT

Clearly, Alpomish and Yuriwaka have significant similarities. It appears unlikely that the two stories could be born independently in Central Asia and Japan.

2.3 Hypothesis on the origin of Yuriwaka’s story in Japan

In folklore studies there are few hypotheses explaining the origin of similar tales in different parts of the world, such as hypothesis of polygenesis and hypothesis of diffusion of folk tales. In his Istoricheskaya Poetica (1940), Alexander Veselovsky introduced those and speculated about their applicability. According to Veselovsky, we should make a clear distinction between such categories as motif and plot when studying tales.

Motif is the smallest unit of a tale that was born as an answer to the doubts of the primitive mind and daily observation… Plot is made up of a combination of different motifs… In those cases when the number of motifs is multiple and their combination within the plot is complex, it is unlikely that similar folk stories of different peoples could have emerged naturally in the process of comprehension of the world and life common to all humanity. It is possible that simple motifs could have emerged in different parts of the world, but the similarity of plot that is made up of their combination suggests the possibility of its transmission (1940: 500 (translated from Russian)).

Veselovsky stated that in some cases routes of transmission were possible to trace: in those cases when similar tales appear in regions that have no connection, the route cannot be determined and the connection is difficult to explain, but in the cases, when the regions are connected through any cultural phenomena, such as, for example, Buddhism, the possibility of transmission should not be disregarded (1940: 510). In the case of Alpomish and Yuriwaka, the territories of dissemination of the stories have a connection mentioned by Veselovsky. It is hard to determine exactly how Alpomish, or its prototype, could have been brought to Japan. But we can assume that the route of transmission was storytelling, an oral tradition that had a connection with Buddhism, rather than some written source. At some point when cultural exchange with the continent was still vigorous, the plot of the story could have been brought to Japan together with Buddhism. The story could have

244 travelled from one language to the other as some structure, or a plot made up of motifs and be recomposed and retold by storytellers according to the audience and circumstances till it eventually became Yuriwaka.

Conclusion

The possibility that Yuriwaka was brought to Japan from Continental Asia has been considered in Japanese scholarship for a long time. Many stories of continental origin that had common motifs with Yuriwaka have been introduced. Alpomish has also been mentioned among those stories, but possible connections between Alpomish and Yuriwaka have never been explored. Unlike many other tales and legends compared with Yuriwaka throughout the history of its research, Alpomish combines characteristics of two possible sources of Yuriwaka. Moreover, the comparative analysis led us to conclude that the story about Alpomish could have emerged as a result of fusion of these two sources, an ancient Greek story about Odysseus and a Buddhist tale about Good Prince, in the tradition of bakhshi. In the past, the countries of Asia were connected through many cultural and trade routes. Buddhism, which has had a great impact on the historical and cultural development of Japan, came to Japan passing on its way through territories known today as Central Asia. Central Asia, a region that experienced the influence of both Greek and Indian culture, could easily become a stage on which knowledge and wisdom of different civilizations represented in lore fused and gave birth to a new tale, which later travelled further east as far as Japan.

REFERENCES

Primary sources

Fozil Yo’ldosh Og’li. 1979. Alpomish. Tashkent: Adabiyot va Sann’at. Makhmud al-Kashgari. (1072-1074). Divan lugat at-Turk. Russian translation and ed. Zifa-alua Auezova. Divan lugat at-Turk. 2005. Almata: Dai-Press. The Sutra of the Wise and the Foolish (Djanlundo). (5th century A.D.). Russian translation. Yurii Parfinovich. Djanlundo (Tibetian version). 1978. Moscow: Nauka. Yuriwaka Daijin. (the Muromachi period (1392-1573). Eds. Asahara Yoshiko, Kitahara Yasuo. In Mai no hon. 1994. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten. Yuriwaka Sekkyō. (18th century). Ed. Yamaguchi Asatarō. 1934. Tokyo: Isseisha.

Secondary sources

Araki, J. T. 1978 “Yuriwaka and Ulysses: The Homeric Epics at the Court of Ouchi Yoshitaka.” Monumenta Nipponica 33: 1-36.

245 Bartakhanova M. 1999. “Perevodcheskaya deyatelnosti uygurov v XII-XI vekah.” Shestaya buddologicheskaya konferenciya: 15-18. Bartold, V. 1968. “Turetskiy epos I Kavkaz.” Yazik i kultura (5). Moscow: Nauka. Eitel, E. J. 1904. Hand Book Of Chinese Buddhism Being A Sanskrit Chinese Dictionary With Vocabularies Of Buddhist Terms In Pali, Sinhalese, Siamese, Burmese, Tibetan, Mongolian And Japanese HC. Tokyo: Sanshusha. Fukuda, A. 1989. “Chūsei no shinwateki densō: kōga saburō yuriwaka daijin o megutte.” Nihon minkan denshō no genryū – nihon kiso bunka no tankyū. Tokyo: Shōgakukan. Jirmundsky, V. & Hodi Zarifov. 1947. Uzbekskiy narodniy geroicheskiy epos. Moscow: Gosudarsvennoe Izdatelstvo Hudojestvennoy literature. Jirmunsky, V. 1960. Skazanie ob Alpomishe I bogatirskaya skazka. Moscow: Nauka. Jirmunsky, V. 1962. Narodniy geroicheskiy epos. Moscow-Leningrad: Gosudarstvennoe izdatelstvo hudojestvennoi literature. Cl. Huart, M. 1914. “Le conte bouddhique des deur frères en langue turque el en caracteres ouigours.” Joural asiatique (Jan-Feb.): 5-57. Kanaseki, T. 1982. Mokuba to sekigyū. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten. Korogli, H. “bakhshi” Bolshaya Sovetskaya Enciclopedia (first entry: 2013, last entry 2015, September) http://biblioclub.ru/index.php?page=dict&termin=676087 Maeda, H. 1959. “Kōwaka bukyoku yuriwaka daijin to hōonkyō: yuriwaka bungaku seiritsu ni kansuru ichi shiron.” Bungaku gogaku 12:94-100. Mair, V. H. 1993. “The Linguistic and Textual Antedecendents of the Sutra of the Wise and the Foolish.” Sino-Platonic Papers 38: 1-95. Ōbayashi, T. 1977. “Yuriwaka densetsu to nairiku ajia.” Fokuroa (1): 78-81. Pelliot, P. 1914. “La version oigoure de l’histoire des princes Kalyanamkara et Papamkara.” T’oung pao: 225-272. Radlov, V. 1888-1911. Opit slovarya tyurkskih narechiy. Moscow: Izdatelstvo vostochnoy literature. Reichl, K. 1989. “Uzbek Epic Poetry: Tradition and Poetic Diction.” In Traditions of Heroic and Epic Poetry. Arthur Hatto and J.B. Hainsworth (Eds.). London: Modern Humanities Research Association: 94-120. Supalaset, S. 2009. “Daihōben hōonkyō no seiritsu mondai.” Indogaku bukkyōgaku 57 (2): 979-976. Tikhonov, D. 1966. Hozyaistvo i obshestvenniy story uygurskogo gosudarstva X-XVI vv. Moscow, Leningrad: Nauka. Tsubouchi, S. 1906. “Yuriwaka densetsu no hongen.” Waseda bungaku (1): 134-43. Tsuda, S.1964. “Bushi bungaku no jidai.” Tsuda sōkichi zenshū. Tokyo: Iwanami shoten. Uspenskiy, V. & Victor Belyaev. 1928. Turkmenskaya muzika. Moscow: Muzikalniy sector. Veselovsky, A. 1940. Istoricheskaya poetica. Leningrad: Khudojestvennaya literature. Watsuji, T. 1963. Watsuji tetsurō zenshū. Tokyo: Iwanami shoten.

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TABLES

TABLE 1 Similarities and differences between the Odyssey, The Tale about Good Prince and Bad Prince and Alpomish

The Tale about Motif The Odyssey Good Prince and Alpomish Bad Prince BIRTH (The hero is born through the intervention of some × supernatural power to childless ○ ○ parents). SLEEP (The hero goes to a faraway country in order to accomplish a great deed. After successfully × reaching his goal, he falls asleep. ○ ○ While deeply asleep, he is left alone in a deserted place). BETRAYAL (The hero is betrayed × by a relative or someone he trusts). ○ ○ SHEPHERD (A local shepherd × helps the hero). ○ ○ INSTRUMENT (The sound of the instrument that belongs to the hero × attracts the attention of the local ○ ○ princess). FOREIGN PRINCESS (The local princess falls in love with the hero × ○ ○ and wants to marry him). MESSENGER BIRD (The hero, while away from home, × communicates with his family with ○ ○ the help of a bird). STEELING THE WIFE (The wife of the hero, who he left at home, is × being forced to marry someone else ○ ○ while the hero is away). CHANGE OF APPEARANCES (The hero’s appearance changes, which is why no one can recognize him, ○ ○ ○ when he returns home). SERVANT (The hero has a loyal old servant, who helps him when he ○ × ○ returns home). RECOGNITION BY A MARK (The × hero has a mark on his body. The ○ ○

247 servant recognizes his master on seeing the mark). RECOGNITION BY AN ANIMAL (Some animals recognize the hero ○ × ○ despite his changed appearance). SON (The hero has a son, who helps × him when he returns home). ○ ○ BOW (The hero strings his × distinguishing bow). ○ ○ REVENGE (The hero kills the × enemy and becomes the lord). ○ ○

TABLE 2 Similarities and differences between the Odyssey, The Tale about Good Prince and Bad Prince, Alpomish and Yuriwaka

Yuriwaka The Tale about Daijin and Motif The Odyssey Good Prince Alpomish Yuriwaka and Bad Prince Sekkyō CHILDLESS LORD and BIRTH THROUGH THE INTERVENTION OF SUPERNATURAL × POWER (The hero is ○ ○ ○ born through the intervention of some supernatural power to childless parents). GREAT DEED (The hero goes to a faraway country in order to accomplish a great deed. After × successfully reaching ○ ○ ○ his goal, he falls asleep. While deeply asleep, he is left alone in a deserted place). BETRAYAL (The person who betrayed the hero and left him × was someone close to ○ ○ ○ him, his relative or subordinate). HELP OF A LOCAL (A local man (or some × creature) becomes the ○ ○ ○ hero’s friend and helps

248 him). SHEPHERD and AN INSTRUMENT (One local shepherd helps the hero. He gives the hero an instrument. × ○ ○ × The sound of the instrument attracts the attention of a local princess). LOCAL PRINCESS (The local princess falls in love with the × ○ ○ × hero and wants to marry him). MESSENGER BIRD (The hero, while away from home, × communicates with ○ ○ ○ his family with the help of a bird). STEALING THE HERO’S WIFE (The hero’s wife, who he left back home, is ○ × ○ ○ being forced to marry someone else while the hero is away). CHANGE OF APPEARANCE (The hero’s appearance changes, which is why ○ × ○ ○ no one can recognize him when he returns home). SERVANT (The hero has a loyal old servant, who helps ○ × ○ ○ him when he returns home). RECOGNITION BY A MARK (The hero has a mark on his body. × The servant ○ ○ ○ recognizes his master by seeing the mark). RECOGNITION BY AN ANIMAL (Some × animals recognize the ○ ○ ○ hero despite his

249 changed appearance). HERO’S SON (The hero has a son, who × × helps him when he ○ ○ returns home). BOW (The hero strings his ○ × ○ ○ distinguishing bow). REVENGE AND PUNISHMENT (The hero kills the enemy ○ × ○ ○ and becomes the lord).

250 DEPICTING AUTHORITY: THE SAIONJI FAMILY AND CULTURAL CAPITAL IN THE EARLY MEDIEVAL JAPANESE COURT Rieko KAMEI-DYCHE*

Abstract: This piece considers the role of cultural capital in the early medieval Japanese court through a case study of the Saionji family. As a prominent courtier family, the Saionji family deployed a variety of strategies aimed at securing and expanding their wealth and influence. These included investing substantial effort in two specific arenas of cultural endeavor. The first of these was waka (classical Japanese poetry). Many Saionji family members cultivated a reputation as talented poets, but they could also make use of their influence to ensure inclusion in the major poetry anthologies of the day. They also enthusiastically patronized other families connected to poetry, as another avenue of influence. The second arena in which they invested was that of the biwa (Japanese lute). In addition to developing their own performance skills and acquiring for their family the epithet “house of the biwa,” members of the Saionji family also gained prominence by served as instructors to sovereigns. The family’s efforts at building cultural capital were a vital component of its continued prominence. Keywords: Saionji, Medieval Japan, Court, Cultural Capital

Introduction During the early medieval era (1192-1392), Japan was characterized by a power-sharing relationship between two poles: the court in Kyoto, and the bakufu in Kamakura.1 For leading courtier families, this represented not just a challenge to their old way of life, but also a set of new opportunities. Contrary to the old stereotype of isolated and declining courtiers, early medieval courtier families commanded immense wealth and influence in this era. Moreover, they carefully

* Assistant professor, Faculty of Letters , Rissho University, Japan. 1 For convenience in this paper I cite English translations of sources where available; all other translations are my own. On court-bakufu relations and the changing view of the world of medieval Japan, see particularly Kuroda Toshio, Kuroda Toshio Chosakushū 1, Kenmon Taisei Ron (Tokyo: Hōzōkan, 2001); Ishii Susumu, Nihon Chūsei Kokkashi no Kenkyū (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1970); Satō Shin’ichi, Nihon no Chūsei Kokka (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1983); Uwayokote Masataka, “Kamakura Bakufu to Kuge Seiken” in Uwayokote, Kamakura Jidai Seiji-shi Kenkyū (Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 1991); Uwayokote Masataka, Nihon Chūsei Kokkashi Ronkō (Tokyo: Hanawa Shobō, 1994); and Nitta Ichirō, Chūsei ni Kokka ha atta ka (Tokyo: Yamakawa Shuppansha, 2004). In English, see for example John W. Hall and Jeffrey P. Mass, eds., Medieval Japan: Essays in Institutional History (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1974); and Jeffrey P. Mass, ed., The Origins of Japan’s Medieval World (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1997).

251 cultivated and invested resources to secure and enhance this wealth and influence, through a series of strategies that I have elsewhere called “tools of authority.”2 One set of strategies related to the amassing of cultural capital. In the conception of Pierre Bourdieu, cultural capital encompasses knowledge and skills, artifacts with cultural value such as books and artwork, and qualifications or achievements.3 It thus functions as a form of authority, enabling its holders to distinguish themselves by virtue of erudition or sophistication.4 Such cultural capital was a worthy investment for courtier families in medieval Japan, as they sought to gain distinction and prestige to lift themselves above competing families. They carefully cultivated their reputation both through engaging in, and through patronizing, poetry, artwork, music, and other cultural pursuits. This was done not only to establish a cultured profile and impress others but also to expand access to sources of authority. This in turn enabled the family to demand greater positions of influence, having proven itself worthy through demonstrating a high degree of sophistication. This article seeks to explore the mechanics of this process by focusing on the case of the Saionji family, one of the most prominent courtier families in early medieval Japan. Saionji family members carefully developed, invested and exploited great amounts of cultural capital to further their goal of dominating contemporary courtier society. In tracing some of the strategies they employed, I attempt to shed light on a relatively unexplored aspect of the world of medieval Japan.

The Saionji The Saionji family is one of the few courtier families to have received attention in conventional warrior-centered narratives of medieval Japan. This is because one of the family’s achievements was its monopoly on the post of Kantō Mōshitsugi, which served as a liaison between the bakufu and the court. 5

2 Rieko Kamei-Dyche, “Tools of Authority: The Saionji Family and Courtier Society in Early Medieval Japan” (Ph.D. dissertation, University of Southern California, 2013). “Tools of authority” encompass all of the long-term strategies employed by courtier families to develop reserves of wealth and influence, through amassing economic, social and cultural capital. They then carefully converted and invested that capital in ways that maximized returns. The Saionji became one of the most powerful courtier families not because they were particularly innovative in their strategies, but rather because they were simply exceptionally skilled at deploying them. 3 Pierre Bourdieu, “The Forms of Capital,” in Handbook of Theory and Research for the Sociology of Education, ed. J. Richardson (Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1986), 243- 248. Bourdieu calls these three types of cultural capital, respectively, “embodied,” “objectified,” and “institutionalized.” Also see Bourdieu, “Cultural Reproduction and Social Reproduction,” in Knowledge, Education and Social Change: Papers in the Sociology of Education, ed. R. Brown (London: Tavistock Publications, 1973), 71-112. 4 This is possible since cultural norms of taste are themselves the products of one’s socialization in a given social class. See Bourdieu, Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste, trans. Richard Nice (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1984). 5 On the Saionji family and particularly the role of Kantō Mōshutsugi, see: Ryō

252 However, the family was just as noteworthy for its enormous wealth, the most famous example of which was the beautiful Kitayama Villa, built on the site where now the world-famous Golden Pavilion is located. Needless to say, the Golden Pavilion was built in a later era by the third Muromachi Shogun, Ashikaga Yoshimitsu (1358-1408), not by any member of the Saionji family. However, it was Saionji Kintsune (1171-1244) himself, reputedly the founder of the house, who first built a luxurious residence there. 6 Visitors were impressed by the splendor of the villa itself, overlooking the capital, as well as by the carefully- planned landscaping of its surroundings, which made for a stunning image as well as a physical representation of Saionji power over people and space.7 The family name, Saionji, also came from the family temple that members established in this location. There is no doubt that the Saionji family lived a luxurious existence, replete with numerous villas and prime land holdings. This wealth was not just an idle inheritance, but was the result of careful multi-generational investment in two areas. One was skillful estate (shōen) management, enabling the Saionji family to fund other forms of investment and assert spatial power over the landscape through the control of areas rich in resources or culturally-accrued authority.8 The other was control of trade routes,

Susumu,“Saionji-ke no Kōryū to Sono Zairyoku” and “Go-Saga-In no Soi to Kantō Mōshutsugi” in Ryō, Kamakura Jidai (Tokyo: Shunjūsha, 1957), Volume 2, 171-182 and 201-251 respectively; Taga Munehaya, “Saionji-ke no Taitō” Nihon Rekishi 284 (1972): 1- 14; Yamamoto Hiroya, “Kantō Mōshitsugi to Kamakura Bakufu” Shigaku Zassshi 8618 (1977): 1145-1182; and Hongō Kazuto, “Saionji-shi Saiko” Nihon Rekishi 633 (2001): 27- 43. There is a tendency to attribute Saionji influence largely or solely to the family’s role in this capacity (e.g., Thomas Conlan writes, “The Saionji possessed unparalleled power, because they were the only noble family that Kamakura officials trusted, for they alone at the court sided with Kamakura during the brief Jōkyu War of 1221” (From Sovereign to Symbol: An Age of Ritual Determinism in Fourteenth Century Japan (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 41). This perspective is conventional, but neglects the numerous other strategies employed by the family, such as its efforts to carefully build powerful networks of relations with the royal family and other courtier families as well as leading figures of the bakufu. 6 The Masukagami relates that this is because Kintsune had a dream of the area, inspired by the region in which the hero of the Tale of Genji had gone to recuperate (George W. Perkins, trans., The Clear Mirror: A Chronicle of the Japanese Court During the Kamakura Period (1185-1333) (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1998), 72). 7 Several extant records describe the beauty and luxuriousness of the villa and its landscape, including Fujiwara no Teika’s Meigetsuki (2nd day of the twelfth month, in 1220, in Dai Nihon Shiryō, Volume 5, Section 2 (Tokyo: Tokyo University Historiographical Institute, 1922), 445), and Lady Nijō’s Towazugatari (The Confessions of Lady Nijō, trans. Karen Brazell (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1973), 176). 8 The Saionji made effective use of lower-ranking courtier families, like the Tachibana, as estate managers, and developed estates rich in economic resources or cultural authority such as ties to the royal family or sources of spiritual protection. For more on this, see my forthcoming “Networks of Wealth and Influence: Spatial Power and the Estate Strategy of the Saionji Family in Early Medieval Japan,” in Reassessing the Shōen System: Society and Economy in Medieval Japan, eds. Joan Piggott and Jan Goodwin (Honolulu:

253 both within Japan and with Song China, which brought the family members great wealth as well as prestige objects from the continent that enhanced their image as sophisticated, cultured individuals.9 The Saionji also made careful use of other strategies to ensure their continued prominence, most famously marriage alliances. Saionji women were carefully matched with powerful men, especially sovereigns, to such an extent that it soon became expected for a sovereign to take a Saionji consort. The family also engaged in gambling in the marriage market, carefully ensuring that even marginal male figures who might acquire political or cultural influence in the future were properly matched with a Saionji partner. Because these women remained strongly connected to their natal family, they also functioned as something of an information network, which also proved helpful to Saionji interests. Figure 1 is a genealogy of some of the key Saionji family members in the early medieval era, and clearly depicts some of the influential figures to whom they were connected.

Figure 1: The Saionji Family

University of Hawai’i Press, 2016). 9 Courtier families could make use of maritime merchants as middlemen to access the China trade, but the Saionji were one of the few families wealthy and secure enough to send ships to China directly. When Saionji Kintsune sent a ship to China complete with a valuable gift to the emperor of cypress lumber for a pavilion, he received all manner of treasures in return, including rare animals that were much sought after as status symbols in Japan (see Hirohashi Tsunemitsu’s diary, Minkeiki (Tokyo University Historiographical Institute, ed., Minkeiki, in Dai Nihon Kokiroku, Volume 8 (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2001), 142). For more on the trade with China, see Charlotte von Verschuer, Across the Perilous Sea: Japanese Trade with China and Korea from the Seventh to the Sixteenth Centuries, trans. Kristen Lee Hunter (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2006).

254

It should come as no surprise that the family invested just as carefully in their cultural endeavors. The family originated from one of the branch families of the Northern Fujiwara regental family, and so from the beginning Saionji family members valued and expected of each other a certain degree of cultural capital. The family focused on two forms of cultural activity in particular, and worked to

255 transmit them – along with the attendant cultural capital they generated – from one generation to the next. One of these was waka, classical Japanese poetry. Elevated into high art by Retired Sovereign Go-Toba (1180-1239), who himself edited the Shin Kokinshū and even established an office for waka in his palace, and celebrated by Go-Saga (1220-1272), waka composition was not merely a literary activity.10 Rather, it was regarded as a kingly art and represented considerable cultural capital in the world of the court where cultural sophistication and political acumen went hand-in- hand.11 As Uwayokote Masataka correctly observes, “Waka was a political literary art.”12 The second form of cultural activity pursued by the Saionji was mastery of the biwa, the Japanese lute. Indeed, the Saionji became known as “the house of the biwa.”13 Musical mastery was a particularly apt arena of cultural activity in which to invest because of the long association between music and royalty, a phenomenon seen not only in Japan but also in other contexts such as the European courts.14 I will now consider each of these forms of activity, and how the Saionji drew on them to amass cultural capital.

Waka The Saionji invested heavily in the world of waka in a variety of roles. The first and most obvious of these was as poets themselves. A considerable number of poems by Saionji members are extant: for instance, 118 by Saionji Kintsune, more than 245 by his son Saneuji (1194-1269), and more than 200 by Sanekane (1249- 1322). Many of their poems were included in royal anthologies, as Figure 2 illustrates.

10 The Office of Waka (和歌所 wakadokoro) was established in the 7th month of 1201. In establishing this office, Go-Toba also enforced poetry examinations (Gomi Fumihiko, Nihon no Rekishi Shin Shiten Chūsei 5: Yakudosuru Chūsei (Tokyo: Shōgakukan, 2008), 149). 11 On the relationship between poetry and politics, see, for example, Ogawa Toyō, “Waka to Teiō” in Waka no Chikara, ed. Watanabe Yasuaki, et al. (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2005), 51-73; Terashima Tsuneyo, “Tennō to Waka: Tsuchimikado-in no Itonami wo toshite” Tokyo Ika Shika Daigaku Kyōyōgakubu Kenkyū Kiyō 37 (2007): 1-13; and Robert N. Huey, Kyōgoku Tamekane: Poetry and Politics in Late Kamakura Japan (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1989). 12 Uwayokote Masataka, Shūkan Asahi Hyakka Nihon no Rekishi 4: Chūsei 1-4 (Tokyo: Asahi Shinbunsha, 2002), 114. 13 Such “familial specialties” among courtier families had existed since around the early 12th century, and a family recognized for a particular art or skill became strongly associated with the practice. For more, see Sugawara Masako, Chūsei no Buke to Kuge no Ie (Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 2007). 14 Music, Bourdieu notes, has long been associated with sophistication and spirituality, qualities that feature heavily in class distinctions (Distinction, 18-19). There is a considerable amount of scholarship on connections between royalty and music in medieval Europe, such as Fiona Kisby’s study of Lady Margaret Beaufort’s musical patronage (“A Mirror of Monarchy: Music and Musicians in the Household Chapel of the Lady Margaret Beaufort, Mother of Henry VII,” Early Music History 16 (1997): 203-234).

256

Figure 2: Waka Anthologies and Saionji Contributors15 Anthology Editor Saionji Contributor #of poems Shin Chokusen Wakashū Fujiwara no Teika Saionji Kintsune 30 (#4) Shoku Gosen Wakashū Fujiwara no Tameie Saionji Saneuji 35 (#2) Shoku Kokin Wakashū Fujiwara no Tameie Saionji Saneuji 61 (#2) Shoku Shūi Wakashū Nijō Tameuji Saionji Saneuji 28 (#4) Shin Gosen Wakashū Nijō Tameyo Saionji Sanekane 27 (#4)

Gyokuyō Wakashū Kyōgoku Tamekane Saionji Sanekane 62 (#3) Saionji Shōshi 49 (#11) (Eifukumon-in) Shoku Senzai Wakashū Nijō Tameyo Saionji Sanekane 51 (#2)

It is clear that no small number of Saionji poems appeared in the anthologies, and that moreover Saionji family members often ranked among the top contributors. Some Saionji members received considerable acclaim, such as Sanekane, who was ranked as one of the best poets in the royal anthologies by subsequent generations.16 While some of the Saionji family members were talented poets, talent was not the only reason for inclusion in an anthology. Anthologies often reflected the political situation of the time, and so one’s political influence often played a significant role. The perpetuation of the intertwined political and cultural worlds of influence was part of an anthology’s purpose rather than merely an incidental occurrence. 17 A particularly glaring example is the Shin Chokusen Wakashū, compiled just after the Jōkyū Disturbance of 1221: it contains not a single poem by Go-Toba, despite his having been regarded as the leading poet of the time, nor any by Juntoku or Tsuchimikado.18 When these figures were exiled and lost their political capital, they were consequently deprived of their cultural capital as well, leading to their “erasure” from the cultural landscape.

15 Information in this chart was double-checked against Ema Tsutomo, et al., eds., Shinshū Kokugo Sōran (Tokyo: Kyoto Shobō, 1985). 16 Saionji Sanekane’s name is quite well-known since he appears in The Confessions of Lady Nijō as one of the author’s lovers (she refers to him by the epithet “Yuki no Akebono”). His poems appear in the same work as well, and there is no small number of studies concerning him as a poet. For instance, see Ishikawa Kazushi, “Sanekane-shū no Seiritsu to Sono Seikaku,” Waka Bungaku Kenkyū 87 (Dec. 2003): 27-37. Saionji Kintsune and Saionji Saneuji, meanwhile, appear in the list of Kamakura-era “new immortals of poetry,” though who compiled this list is unknown. 17 For more on this, see for example Tabuchi Kumiko, “Kamakura Jidai no Kadan to Bungei,” in Nihon no Jidaishi 9: Mongoru no Shūrai, ed. Kondō Seiichi (Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 2003), 151-189. 18 The Jōkyū Disturbance was an attempt by Go-Toba and his allies to overthrow the bakufu and return power wholly to the court. Its failure was due in no small part to the Saionji family itself, as family members caught wind of the plot and tipped off the bakufu.

257 There was a circle linking political and cultural achievements, where capital generated in one arena could be smoothly converted into capital in the other. On the one hand, individuals able to secure their inclusion in an anthology could gain political influence for themselves and their families as a result of this cultural recognition. On the other hand, just as cultural accomplishments could open the door to political advancement, politically prominent individuals and families sought cultural recognition that would further legitimate or reinforce their noble image. Moreover, anthology compilers had their own networks and agendas, and so courtiers, especially those with a poetic reputation to protect, often needed to prevail on the compilers to insure that their works would be included. For instance, during the compilation of the Shin Chokusen Wakashū, many people pushed compiler Fujiwara no Teika (1162-1241) to include their poems. Saionji Kintsune plugged many of his poems tirelessly, one after another.19 Kintsune would have had several motives for doing so: protecting the Saionji reputation for poetry, representing (and reproducing) the political influence of the family both to his contemporaries and descendants, and seeking further social advancement through the attendant recognition. Because political and cultural capital could be exchanged, he could simultaneously use poems to gain political recognition while also using political influence to ensure that his poems became prominent.20 Another way that the Saionji invested in waka was through patronage. As courtier families gained prominence in a cultural arena, it was logical to ensure dominance by supporting other families active in the same arena, thereby gaining cultural capital from the artistic output of those families as well. It is therefore not surprising to find that the Saionji family enthusiastically patronized waka in many ways, such as hosting poetry gatherings, and supporting anthology projects. Poets from less powerful families benefitted from this system, in turn, not only because they needed the support, but also because it was only through the recognition of a powerful patron that they could establish a “brand” and open doors to genuine prominence.21 However brilliant a poetic work may have been on its own merit, it was of little cultural value without the proper endorsement of a respected patron. This is perhaps best illustrated by the rather extreme example of Fujiwara no Teika, who in 1234 destroyed the draft of Shin Chokusen Wakashū that he had spent two years compiling. This drastic act was in response to the death of the anthology’s patron, Go-Horikawa Tennō (1212-1234), without whom the entire project was deemed worthless.22

19 Uwayokote, 226. 20 Skillful poets would, naturally, craft poems that hinted at their political acumen. For example, Fujikawa Yoshikazu has demonstrated this in the case of Saionji Saneuji (See “Hōji Gannen ‘In On’uta Awase’ no Saionji Saneuji,” Kokugo to Kokubungaku 83.6 (2006): 27-42, and “Saionji Saneuji ‘Hōji Hyakushu’ no Hana Goshu,” Onomichi Daigaku Nihon Bungaku Ronsō 5 (2009): 43-53). 21 On this phenomenon, see Yamada Toyoko, Burando no Jōken (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2006). 22 “Around the hour of the dragon, I put twenty volumes of my own draft of the royal

258 There were various ways for a patron to support waka-related activities. One was to hold poetry gatherings, an action that demonstrated one had both good taste and wielded sufficient power and influence to patronize other poets. Examining poetry gatherings during the early medieval era reveals that in almost all cases the sponsors were leading figures in the court or bakufu, or individuals hailing from powerful courtier families. Participating in such gatherings was essential for both emerging and established poets to shore up their own cultural capital. Members of the Saionji family were no exception. They participated in poetry gatherings, but they also held their own, as befitted their status as elite cultural sponsors.23 The Saionji also supported individual poets and poetry families as long-term investments. They also built strong relationships with Teika’s family, the Mikohidari, which was responsible for editing the royal anthologies, enabling them to all but guarantee the presence of a fine selection of Saionji compositions in each anthology that came along. 24 Teika represented a particularly good investment, and Saionji Kintsune worked to provide him with opportunities, knowing that as Teika acquired fame he would in turn glorify his Saionji patrons and legitimate the family’s own literary endeavors.25 Patronage of an anthology was in all likelihood the most immediate and respected way to engage in cultural patronage.26 A particularly noteworthy case of anthology in the southern garden and burned it. It has already turned to ash,” wrote Teika in his diary, “To have received a royal order and then encountered such misfortune [i.e. Go-Horikawa’s death] before I could carry it out – such a thing is without precedent! It has already been clearly revealed that I was not fortunate enough to have divine protection or assistance for this [project]. I am sure to be the target of slander and disgrace. There is nothing to be done about it,” (Meigetsuki, 7th day of the eighth month in 1234 (Tokyo: Kokusho Kankōkai, 1912), Volume 3, 412). Fortunately for the history of Japanese literature, Kujō Michiie had kept a draft Teika had handed him some months earlier, and under Michiie’s patronage the project was completed after all. 23 Saionji Kintsune, for example, held poetry gatherings on several occasions, some of which were conducted at his own residences. For instance, in 1230 he held gatherings on the 27th of the first month and the 13th of the fifth month (Tokyo University Historiographical Institute, ed., Dai Nihon Shiryō, Volume 5, Section 5 (Tokyo: Tokyo Daigaku Shuppankai, 1969), 574 and 725, respectively). 24 Saionji patronage of the Mikohidari is well-known. Huey, for example, writes that Kintsune’s son Saneuji was an “important patron of the Mikohidari line” (57). The role of strong connections with the Mikohidari in gaining the Saionji cultural capital is further supported by the fact that the Saionji cease to appear as superior poets in any of the later royal anthologies, such as Shoku Goshui Wakashū, contemporaneous with the weakening of Saionji influence over the Mikohidari. 25 For instance, on the fifteenth day of the seventh month in the year 1200, Teika learned from Kintsune that Retired Sovereign Go-Toba planned to compile an anthology of 100 poems (Shōji shodo hyakushu), and that Kintsune was pushing to have Teika included, prompting an appreciative reply from the latter (Meigetsuki, entry for the 15th day of the seventh month in 1200 (Tokyo: Kokusho Kankōkai, 1911), Volume 1, 160). Sadly, in this case the criteria for inclusion were changed and Teika was ultimately ineligible. 26 For more on this phenomenon generally, see Steven D. Carter, Literary Patronage in

259 Saionji patronage in this area is that of Saionji Kitsushi (1225-1292), who, as the queen consort of Go-Saga Tennō, became known as Ōmiya-in. One of the more prominent cultural patrons of her era, her most significant accomplishment was to commission the Fūyō Wakashū, an anthology of waka collected from fictional tales (tsukuri monogatari). Most scholars agree that not only did Ōmiya-in commission the project, but moreover that she and women around her undertook the actual work as well, with Teika’s son Tameie (1198-1275) carrying out the final editing of the anthology.27 Ōmiya-in also made use of her family networks to help acquire the vast number of texts needed to compile the anthology, a monumental task considering how duplication at the court was done by hand and required immense time and wealth to carry out. Her family connections brought access to numerous families, while her authority enabled her to gently but firmly persuade them to lend her their precious texts long enough for her scribes to copy them. As was the case with much patronage by courtly women in medieval Europe, it was highly likely that Ōmiya-in saw the Fūyō Wakashū as an opportunity to celebrate her family. 28 In this regard she was successful, generating a great amount of cultural capital for the Saionji family while celebrating their refined taste, wealth and authority for enabling the project to be completed.

Biwa As with waka, musical skills represented valuable assets that could be transformed into political capital at court. Investment in musical training and the development of musical reputation became a reliable strategy for capable courtier families. However, not all musical activities were equal, and initially the biwa occupied a somewhat lower status among the instruments. It was sometimes given to a person of lower rank to play, as depicted in the Tale of Genji.29

Late Medieval Japan (Ann Arbor, MI: Center for Japanese Studies, University of Michigan, 1993). 27 See Yoneda Akemi, who discusses the views of numerous scholars and endorses the consensus on this point (Fūyō Wakashū no Kōzō ni Kansuru Kenkyū (Tokyo: Kasama Shoin, 1996), 507-524). It is likely that Kyōgoku Tamekane’s sister, Tameko (1251?-1316?), a poet in her own right who was serving in the household of Ōmiya-in at the time, significantly contributed to the project. See Higuchi Yoshimaro, “Sumiyoshi Monogatari to Fūyō Wakashū,” Kokugo Kokubungakuhō 42 (1985.3): 11-22. For further details on the Fūyō Wakashū, see Higuchi’s “Fūyō Wakashū” in Taikei Monogatari Bungakushi 5: Monogatari Bungaku no Keifu III – Kamakura Monogatari 2, ed. Mitani Eiichi (Tokyo: Yūseidō, 1991), 262-282, and Heian Kamakura Jidai San’itsu Monogatari no Kenkyū (Tokyo: Hitaku Shobō, 1982). 28 By way of comparison, see for example Loveday L. Gee, Women, Art and Patronage From Henry III to Edward III: 1216-1377 (Woodridge: The Boydell Press, 2002); Erin L. Jordan, Women, Power, and Religious Patronage in the Middle Ages (New York: Palgrave, 2006); and June Hall McCash, ed., The Cultural Patronage of Medieval Women (Georgia: University of Georgia Press, 1996). 29 It was Lady Akashi, the lowest ranking among Genji’s women, who played the biwa at a women’s concert in the “Spring Shoots II Chapter” of the Tale of Genji (Murasaki Shikibu, trans. Royall Tyler, The Tale of Genji (New York: Viking Penguin, 2001), 639). The Genji occupies a special place in historical consciousness because it in many ways reflected

260 However, over time the biwa gained prominence and became strongly associated with kingship, as Juntoku Tennō’s Kinpishō illustrates:

“The second [element that a tennō should master] is music….. [A sovereign] should master some kind of music. Due to the excellent example set by the monarchs En’yū and Ichijō, the flute has been played by sovereigns for generations. There are also good precedents for the monarch to play the wagon, since the time of Engi and Tenryaku. The same holds for the sō no koto as well. Even if there is no particular precedent for the biwa, it should be a musical instrument included in [the list of royal instruments]. I have never heard of a precedent for the shō and hichiriki. […] Nonetheless, what a tennō should care about [most] is the flute; it has never ceased being important during the eras of Horikawa, Toba, and the Retired Sovereign Takakura. Nevertheless, neither are the sō no koto and biwa inferior to the flute.30

By the early medieval era, biwa performance was regarded as a royal skill that conferred considerable authority, and it is in this context that the Saionji family’s involvement with biwa must be considered.31 The Saionji relationship with the biwa originated in the time of Kintsune’s father, Saionji Sanemune (1144-1212), in the late twelfth century. He was the best disciple of leading musician Fujiwara no Moronaga (1138-1192), who instructed him in the two schools of biwa performance – the Katsura (桂) and the Sai (西).32 court life, and subsequently became an ideal to which real courtiers aspired. This is why scenes in the Genji were imitated, including the concert scene in question. At Go- Fukakusa’s court the scene was replicated in a sequence that made Lady Nijō extremely upset because she was forced to take the role of Lady Akashi playing the biwa, a position which she felt, because of Akashi’s rank among Genji’s women, was beneath her (The Confessions of Lady Nijō, 96-97). 30 Kinpishō Kōchū, Shūkaishō in Kojitsu Sōsho, Volume 22 (Tokyo: Meiji Tosho Shuppan, 1952), 99. The Kinpishō (禁秘抄 also known as the Kinchūshō 禁中抄, or Kenryaku Onki 建暦御記 ) was a text written by Juntoku Tennō concerning practices at the court necessary for a sovereign. It was likely completed between 1219 and 1221. The first element Juntoku indicates that a sovereign should master was studies (gakumon). The instruments mentioned are wagon (6-stringer zither), sō no koto (Japanese floor zither), shō (reed mouth organ), and hichiriki (double-reed flute). 31 The status of the biwa continued to rise as the medieval era progressed. In Chin’yōki (椿葉記), a work presented to Go-Hanazono Tennō by his father, Prince Sadafusa (1372- 1456), music is listed as the first thing a tennō should master, with the sovereign being strongly encouraged to play the biwa in particular (Chin’yōki, cited by Murata Masashi in Murata Masashi Chosakushū, Volume 4 (Tokyo: Shibunkaku Shuppan, 1984), 248). 32 Toyonaga Satomi, Chūsei no Tennō to Ongaku (Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 2006), 186. Around the end of the Heian Period, the biwa tradition split into two schools due to differences in playing the instrument. However, Fujiwara no Moronaga learned the techniques from both schools and united them. In this regard, Moronaga’s contribution is quite significant. For details, see Sōma Mariko, “‘Daidai Biwa Hikyoku Godenju no koto’ to Sono Zengo: Jimyō-in-to Tennō no Biwa” Shoryōbu Kiyō 36 (1984):26-39.

261 Sanemune built a reputation as an excellent biwa player, providing the initial foundation for his family to build an identity as the “house of the biwa.” He became the formal biwa instructor for Prince Morisada (1179-1223), a respected position. 33 However, he failed to become the formal instructor for Go-Toba, losing out to a rival – Nijō Sadasuke (1163-1227) – who had known the sovereign since the latter was little.34 This setback has led scholar Iwasa Miyoko to assert that Sanemone and his son Kintsune responded by neglecting the biwa for a generation.35 However, this is not supported by the documentary record, which only affirms that they continued to hone their skills while simultaneously patronizing other biwa performers. The Saionji thus followed a similar pattern to the direct pursuit and patronage approach that they employed for waka. The Saionji even displayed in their temple an enshrined Benzaiten, a deity not only associated with good fortune particularly in the areas of music, but moreover the patron deity of biwa who is usually depicted holding the instrument.36 When Saionji Kinsuke (1223-1267), a grandson of Kintsune’s, became the formal biwa instructor for a sovereign, he recorded his delight in his journal and gave thanks to Benzaiten for granting the wish he had asked of her, namely that he continue to rise within the world of biwa:

Today the Tennō [Go-Fukakusa] began learning to play the biwa. It was decided in advance by the retired sovereign [Go-Saga] that I, Kinsuke, should serve as a formal instructor. This is the greatest honor in this specialty. The late Minister of Rokujo [Sanemune] and the Novice [Kintsune] enjoyed playing it [the biwa] for many years. Their talents were incomparable, and people praised them. However, since Lord Sadasuke came to serve as a formal instructor for both retired sovereigns – Go-Toba and Juntoku – others gave up playing it. [Today,] I, Kinsuke, although being unworthy and needing more practice, was appointed as formal instructor. This is really embarrassing, but also a cause for celebration. Previously, I had been praying this would happen. This morning, I paid a visit to Myoon-in Hall (located in the southern corridor of the Saionji family temple). After praying, I took up the biwa and played one prelude, one song (Gojoraku no Kyu) three times, and one interlude one time. Then, I turned around to [face] the image and prayed for my intentions. Afterwards, I returned to Kyoto. This honor [of being chosen as a formal instructor of biwa for the tennō] must be the blessing of Myoonten [i.e., Benzaiten]. All thanks be to her, all thanks be to her!37

33 There were both formal and informal biwa instructors for tennō, although both were official appointments. It was the formal post that the Saionji focused on monopolizing. 34 Toyonaga, 59. 35 Iwasa Miyoko, ed., Bunkidan Zenchūshaku (Tokyo: Kasama Shoin, 2007), 424. 36 On the link between Benzaiten and biwa performers, see David T. Bialock, “Outcasts, Emperorship, and Dragon Cults in The Tale of the Heike,” Cahiers d'Extrême-Asie 13 (2002): 227-310. 37 Saionji Kinsuke, Kangen On Denju Ki (管弦御伝授記), entry for the 21st day of the fourth month in 1252, in Kunaichō Sho-misasagi-bu, ed., Fushimi no Miya Kyōzō

262

After Kinsuke in the early thirteenth century, the Saionji established themselves as the “house of biwa” to such an extent that they almost monopolized the position of formal biwa instructor to the tennō, as can be seen in Figure 3.

Figure 3: Saionji Biwa Instructors Name of Tennō Saionji Member Who Became Biwa Instructor Go-Fukakusa Saionji Kinsuke Kameyama Saionji Kinsuke Go-Uda Toin Kinmori38 Fushimi Saionji Sanekane, and Kin’aki39 Go-Fushimi Saionji Kin’aki, Sanekane Go-Nijo Saionji Kin’aki Go-Daigo Saionji Sanekane, Imadegawa Kanesue

Controlling the position of formal biwa instructor to the tennō brought immense prestige to the Saionji, marking them as officially recognized musical authorities. At times they used their newfound authority to resolve disputes between musicians and so forth.40 They also sought to reinforce their influence through further enhancing the cultural status of the biwa – indeed, as Sōma argues, “the biwa gained even more authority through the Saionji’s deep involvement with it.”41 The rise of the Saionji in the world of biwa thus also brought prestige to others associated with the same tradition, such as teachers or colleagues of Saionji musicians, notably the leading biwa family, the Sai School, which saw its fortunes rise along with those of the Saionji. The Saionji and Sai School families apprenticed their youth to each other’s masters, and even had marriage relations.42 Despite not being royal intimates and therefore unable to serve as formal instructors to sovereigns, the Sai School family gained special positions and advantages through their Saionji patrons, while the latter enjoyed increased cultural capital through their patronage of the Sai School family.

Gakusho Shūsei, Volume 1 (Tokyo: Meiji Shoin, 1991), 82. 38 Toin Kinmori (1249-1317) was a son of Toin Saneo, who was himself a son of Kintsune. Saneo became the progenitor of the Toin family, but he benefited from the cultural weight bestowed by his Saionji heritage. 39 Saionji Kin’aki (1274-1321) was a son of Sanekane. 40 For example, when there was some trouble between the sovereign and the court musicians concerning the selection of biwa players, Sanekane acted as a mediator and resolved the issue (Toyonaga, 187-188). Saionji experience as political mediators crossed over into the cultural as Sanakane resolved musical issues among courtiers and warriors alike, as Toyonaga confirms: “[he] was one of only a few, and probably even the only, person who could act as a go-between among the royal family, warriors, and courtly musicians” (ibid., 188). 41 Sōma, 28. 42 On this, see Toyonaga, 189-191; also see Sōma, 28.

263

Conclusion In early medieval courtier society, cultural capital was one of the most essential tools a courtier family needed in order to secure and enhance its influence. It was not sufficient for a family to merely become wealthy and display this wealth in a manner in keeping with the lifestyle of the most affluent courtier families. It was also vital for members of a family to showcase their learning and master of cultural pursuits. The Saionji family was one family that understood this and wisely invested in cultural endeavors, ensuring that over the generations its status would rise. Through both engaging in the production of poetry and music themselves, and undertaking patronage efforts, the Saionji generated considerable cultural capital. Clearly aware of the links between cultural activities and power in the court, members of the Saionji family were engaged in carefully-orchestrated strategies of self-promotion – they simultaneously claimed and exercised political influence, while producing and reproducing a vision of themselves as sophisticated and cultured elites worthy of an exalted degree of political authority. Their success in this regard played a key role in ensuring the family’s continued prominence as one of the most influential courtier families in Japanese history.

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264 Gomi, F. 2008 Nihon no Rekishi Shin Shiten Chūsei 5: Yakudosuru Chūsei. Tokyo: Shōgakukan. Higuchi, Y. 1991. “Fūyō Wakashū.” In Taikei Monogatari Bungakushi 5: Monogatari Bungaku no Keifu III –Kamakura Monogatari 2. Ed. Mitani Eiichi. Tokyo: Yūseidō. 262-282. _____. 1982. Heian Kamakura Jidai San’itsu Monogatari no Kenkyū. Tokyo: Hitaku Shobō. _____. 1985. “Sumiyoshi Monogatari to Fūyō Wakashū.” Kokugo Kokubungakuhō 42 (1985.3): 11-22. Hirohashi, T. 2001. Minkeiki. In Dai Nihon Kokiroku, Volume 8. Ed. Tokyo University Historiographical Institute. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten. Hongō, K. 2001. “Saionji-shi Saiko.” Nihon Rekishi 633: 27-43. Huey, R. N. 1989. Kyōgoku Tamekane: Poetry and Politics in Late Kamakura Japan. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Ishikawa, K. 2003. “Sanekane-shū no Seiritsu to Sono Seikaku.” Waka Bungaku Kenkyū 87 (Dec. 2003): 27-37. Iwasa, M. (ed.). 2007. Bunkidan Zenchūshaku. Tokyo: Kasama Shoin. Jordan, E. L. 2006. Women, Power, and Religious Patronage in the Middle Ages. New York: Palgrave. Kamei-Dyche, R. 2016. “Networks of Wealth and Influence: Spatial Power and the Estate Strategy of the Saionji Family in Early Medieval Japan.” In Joan Piggott and Jan Goodwin (eds.), Reassessing the Shōen System: Society and Economy in Medieval Japan. Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press. _____. “Tools of Authority: The Saionji Family and Courtier Society in Early Medieval Japan.” Ph.D. dissertation. University of Southern California, 2013. Kisby, F. 1997. “A Mirror of Monarchy: Music and Musicians in the Household Chapel of the Lady Margaret Beaufort, Mother of Henry VII.” Early Music History 16: 203-234. McCash, J. H. (ed.). 1996. The Cultural Patronage of Medieval Women. Georgia: University of Georgia Press. Murasaki, Shikibu. The Tale of Genji. Trans. Royall Tyler (2001). New York: Viking Penguin. Murata, M. 1984. Murata Masashi Chosakushū. Vol. 4. Tokyo: Shibunkaku Shuppan. Nijō, Lady. The Confessions of Lady Nijō. Trans. Karen Brazell (1973). Stanford: Stanford University Press. Ogawa, T. 2005 .“Waka to Teiō.” In Waka no Chikara. Ed. Watanabe Yasuaki, et al. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten. 51-73. Perkins, G. W., 1998. trans. The Clear Mirror: A Chronicle of the Japanese Court During the Kamakura Period (1185-1333). Stanford: Stanford University Press. Ryō, S. 1957. Kamakura Jidai Vol. 2. Tokyo: Shunjūsha. Saionji, K. 1991.Kangen On Denju Ki. In Fushimi no Miya Kyōzō Gakusho Shūsei, Volume 1. Ed. Kunaichō Sho-misasagi-bu. Tokyo: Meiji Shoin.

265 Sōma, M. 1984. “‘Daidai Biwa Hikyoku Godenju no koto’ to Sono Zengo: Jimyō- in-to Tennō no Biwa.” Shoryōbu Kiyō 36: 26-39. Sugawara, M. 2007. Chūsei no Buke to Kuge no Ie. Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan. Tabuchi, K. 2003 “Kamakura Jidai no Kadan to Bungei.” In Nihon no Jidaishi 9: Mongoru no Shūrai. Ed. Kondō Seiichi. Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan: 151-189. Taga, M. 1972. “Saionji-ke no Taitō.” Nihon Rekishi 284: 1-14. Terashima, T. 2007. “Tennō to Waka: Tsuchimikado-in no Itonami wo toshite.” Tokyo Ika Shika Daigaku Kyōyōgakubu Kenkyū Kiyō 37: 1-13. Toyonaga, S. 2006. Chūsei no Tennō to Ongaku. Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan. Uwayokote, M. 2002 Shūkan Asahi Hyakka Nihon no Rekishi 4: Chūsei 1-4. Tokyo: Asahi Shinbunsha. Von Verschuer, Ch. 2006. Across the Perilous Sea: Japanese Trade with China and Korea from the Seventh to the Sixteenth Centuries. Trans. Kristen Lee Hunter. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Yamada, T. 2006. Burando no Jōken. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten. Yamamoto, H. 1977. “Kantō Mōshitsugi to Kamakura Bakufu.” Shigaku Zassshi 8618: 1145-1182. Yoneda, A. 1996. Fūyō Wakashū no Kōzō ni Kansuru Kenkyū. Tokyo: Kasama Shoin.

266 MAPPING THE INTELLECTUAL LANDSCAPE: BOOKSTORES AND BOOK TOWNS IN THE LATE MEIJI ERA

Andrew T. KAMEI-DYCHE*

Abstract: As modernization transformed nineteenth-century Japan in dramatic ways, the socio-economic changes that were engendered opened up a new world for intellectuals. The acquisition of books was a key part of this world, not only for gaining knowledge but also as part of the social activity associated with intellectuals. Consequently, the sites of physical and social space dedicated to books – bookstores and book towns – took on great importance. This article attempts to briefly discuss the role of these two locales of print culture in the intellectual world of late Meiji Japan, drawing out some of the connections among places, people and books that shaped the lives of contemporary intellectuals. It introduces some of the era’s noted bookstores and the town of Kanda Jinbochō, which today remains Japan’s premier book town. Keywords: Print culture, book history, Kanda-Jinbochō, intellectual life

Introduction Books played a vital role in the various trajectories of Japan’s modernization. The number of areas of knowledge and fields of study transformed through the interaction of Western and Eastern ideas in the form of books were myriad. In addition to the classical canon, excerpts from which continued to be memorized by students in the new education system, doctors, philosophers and other members of the modern intellectual elite mastered one or more foreign languages – most commonly German, French, English or Russian – and amassed collections of foreign books and translated volumes. It is not surprising, therefore, that books occupied the central space of focus and veneration in the worldview of the Meiji intellectual. However, in addition to the books themselves, the physical and social spaces dedicated to print culture played a vital role in the intellectual world of late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century Japan.1 The two most obvious examples of this were bookstores, which often functioned as touchstones for the intellectual community, and book towns, where book merchants, publishers and others in the

* The author is an assistant professor in the Global Communication Institute at Kanda University of International Studies, Japan. 1 For an outline of the history of books and publishing during the Meiji period, see, for example, Shōji Sensui, Nihon no Shobutsu: Kodai kara Gendai made (Tokyo: Bijutsu Shuppansha, 1978). For other relevant works, see my “The History of Books and Print Culture in Japan: The State of the Discipline,” Book History 14 (2011): 270-304.

267 book trade clustered together. Examining these two central types of print culture space can therefore offer us considerable insight into the Meiji intellectual milieu. Since book towns require bookstores upon which to build a foundation, it is pertinent to start by considering the latter.

Bookstores In the late Meiji era, with the expansion of the school-going public and the vital role of printed materials for students – textbooks, journals, and works of scholarship both domestic and translated – bookstores represented a significant growth industry. 2 In addition to selling works for entertainment and study, bookstores also became firmly entrenched as part of the modern urban experience, so that regular visits to the bookstores became a popular activity, especially among students and intellectuals. From the late nineteenth through mid-twentieth century, this phenomenon operated on a worldwide scale, common not only in major European centers like London and Paris, but also in Asian cities like Shanghai. Leo Ou-Fan Lee observes that, “For Shanghai writers the most important pastime, aside from going to the movies, was going to the bookstores.”3 Bookstores also functioned as outposts of urban intellectual culture that connected local writers and students to the broader intellectual community, regardless of whether they were located in the metropole itself or in smaller cities. Intellectuals frequented bookstores both to acquire works and to participate in this culture, in which the very act of purchasing books represented a social performance marking one as educated and culturally sophisticated. When travelling, bookstores were one of the first locations modern intellectuals would visit, not just to scope out local offerings, but also to connect to the local intellectual hub and perhaps make some new acquaintances. Even the writer Natsume Sōseki, despite his struggles with anxiety and depression that left him almost a shut-in, still made it a point to frequent bookstores during his time in London.4 Consequently, many bookstores themselves evolved into the centers of local intellectual networks, providing social spaces for intellectuals to congregate. Booksellers themselves were often not just merchants but also mediators who connected individuals and networks together. In Kyoto, Nishikawa Seikōdō began as a rental bookstore in 1903, but evolved into a wide-ranging bookstore that served as a salon for many students at Kyoto Imperial University. The proprietor, Nishikawa Haru, had soon established herself as the center of a student network

2 On the situation of bookstores and the book trade in Meiji Society, see for instance Kan Satoko, Media no Jidai: Meiji Bungaku wo meguru Jōkyō (Tokyo: Sōbunsha Shuppan, 2001), and Oda Mitsuo, Shoten no Kindai: Hon ga Kagayaiteita Jidai (Tokyo: Heibonsha, 2003). 3 Leo Ou-Fan Lee, Shanghai Modern: The Flowering of a New Urban Culture in China, 1930-1945 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999), 120. 4 See, for example, Tsunematsu Ikuo, “Rondon Shōsoku: Sōseki to Rondon no Furuhonya, Konjaku,” Sōseki Kenkyū 8 (May 1997): 215-221.

268 and an essential part of local student culture.5 In Tokyo, at Yūshikaku Shoten (founded in 1877, later to become the publisher Yūhikaku), Egusa Onotarō and his wife, both in their twenties, saw their store become popular with students and morph into a salon of sorts. The proprietors embraced this identity and became almost parental figures for the students, operating an ad hoc pawn service and lending money to students in need.6 This phenomenon was not unique to Japan: to some extent in the early twentieth century many bookstores around the world fulfilled such combination roles, providing intellectual sustenance in the form of both print and socialization. Indeed, during the 1920s Sylvia Beach’s Shakespeare and Company in Paris – which served as a key meeting point for F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, Gertrude Stein, James Joyce, and other writers associated with the “Lost Generation” – and Uchiyama Kanzō’s Uchiyama Shoten in Shanghai – which functioned as the center of Lu Xun’s intellectual networks, as well as a location where visiting Japanese intellectuals could meet their Chinese counterparts – were outstanding exemplars of the role of bookstore as core of intellectual network and owner as intellectual mediator.7 However, this pattern was widespread in Japan, and no small number of bookstore owners were directly and fully engaged in the intellectual world of their clientele. Chief among these was Iwanami Shoten, founded by Iwanami Shigeo in August 1913, initially as a used book store.8 Iwanami, however, had a knack for building and making use of intellectual networks, starting with his best friends Abe Yoshishige and Abe Jirō, who were disciples (monkasei) of Natsume Sōseki.9

5 Nishikawa often lent money to students, at times resulting in situations where she had to essentially stake out the street for those who might renege on their debts. Some of the students returned later in life with successful careers and paid her back and then some. For a brief outline of Nishikawa Seikōdō, see Oda Mitsuo, op. cit., 184; for an in-depth treatment, see the account by Matsuki Sadao, Honya Ichidaiki: Kyōto Nishikawa Seikōdō (Tokyo: Chikuma Shobō, 1986). 6 Suzuki Shōzō, Nihon no Shuppankai wo Kizuita Hitobito (Tokyo: Kashiwa Shobō, 1985), 46. 7 On Beach, see her own memoir Shakespeare and Company (New York: Harcourt, Brace and Company, 1959), and Noel R. Fitch, Sylvia Beach and the Lost Generation: A History of Literary Paris in the Twenties and Thirties (New York: Norton, 1983); on Uchiyama, see his own Kakōroku (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1960), as well as Christopher T. Keaveney, Beyond Brushtalk: Sino-Japanese Literary Exchange in the Interwar Period (Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 2009), and my own “Rojin to Deatta Nihonjin: Uchiyama Shoten to Senzen Nichū Kankei no Saikō,” Shisōshi Kenkyū 10 (September 2009): 105-115. 8 On Iwanami Shigeo, see Abe Yoshishige, Iwanami Shigeo-den (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1957), Kobayashi Isamu, Sekireki-so Shujin: Hitotsu no Iwanami Shigeo-den (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1963), Nakajima Takeshi, Iwanami Shigeo: Riberaru Nashonarisuto no Shōzō (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2013). Iwanami Shoten has produced numerous records of its own history, such as Iwanami Shoten Hachi-jū-nen (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1996). 9 In fact Iwanami was only able to rent the space for his store (at #16 Minami-Jinbochō) in the first place because of connections through his friends; see for instance Kōno

269 A former student with an abiding passion for philosophy and literature, Iwanami got along with Sōseki and soon became a monkasei himself, frequently attending the meetings of Sōseki’s inner circle, the Mokuyōkai.10 Sōseki directed business to his young disciple’s store, and lent him money as well. As Kōno Kensuke observes, “In a way, one could say Sōseki lent the working capital to Iwanami Shoten in the early days of its business. He gave the new bookstore both the capital and the opportunity to become a big business.”11 Sōseki’s greatest contribution to Iwanami, however, was in the form of cultural cachet. He made the characters for the store sign, something which received widespread recognition and was even commented upon by the press.12 Sōseki’s creation of the sign represented a major intellectual endorsing the book trade, and put the lie to the common notion that cultural production and commercial interests were necessarily opposed. While the original sign was destroyed in the conflagration that consumed Kanda-Jinbochō during the Great Kantō Earthquake of 1923, the imprint survived and continues to be used by Iwanami Shoten today. Even more important than the sign, however, was another contribution Sōseki made to his disciple’s bookstore: in 1914 he agreed to let Shigeo publish his masterpiece of serial fiction, Kokoro, after its successful run in the Asahi Shinbun.13 Having proved enormously popular during its initial run, Kokoro was a guaranteed best-seller in single-volume format, and Sōseki entrusting Shigeo to produce the work represented a major financial matter. Its true significance,

Kensuke, Monogatari: Iwanami Shoten Hyakunen-shi (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2013), 37. 10 The Mokuyōkai as an unofficial salon of sorts consisting of Sōseki, his closest disciples, and whoever had been invited or was stopping by at the moment to consult the imminent writer, had been formulated by the monkasei Suzuki Miekichi as a way of enabling Sōseki to handle all the people who wanted to see him. It also conveniently enabled the monkasei to socially perform their roles as disciples of their master, while granting them the status of gatekeepers. The group generally met on Thursdays (hence the name) at 3 pm, at Sōseki’s residence in Waseda Minami-chō to where he had moved with his family in 1907. The residence itself came to be referred to as “Sōseki Sanbō.” See Uchida Hyakken, Sōseki Sanbō no Ki (Tokyo: Kadokawa Bunko, 1954), Hayashibara Kōzō, Sōseki Sanbō no Hitobito (Tokyo: Kōdansha, 1971), and Matsuoka Yuzuru, Aa Sōseki Sanbō (Tokyo: Asahi Shinbunsha, 1967). For Sōseki’s own reflections, see Sōseki, Inside My Glass Doors, trans. Sammy I. Tsunematsu (Tuttle: 2002), as well as Marvin Marcus, Reflections in a Glass Door: Memory and Melancholy in the Personal Writing of Natsume Soseki (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2009). 11 Kōno, op.cit., 53.

12 See, for example, Tokyo Asahi Shinbun, 12 September 1913. 13 A large amount of modern literature in the late Meiji era was published in serial form first, in newspapers or magazines, and then if successful was re-published in book format after its run completed. This was also the case in many Western countries at the time. The nature of serial publication imposed certain limitations on writers in terms of space and time, while enabling them to shift the content of their work based on audience feedback – a point worth remembering when much literary criticism addresses works as finished objects without much regard for the process of their creation.

270 however, was that it served to establish Iwanami Shoten’s name among intellectuals more broadly. Iwanami Shigeo carefully cultivated his expanding intellectual network as he morphed his business into a successful publishing venture, eventually becoming Japan’s leading highbrow publisher as well as an innovator who established literary canons and even pioneered publishing formats such as the bunkobon and shinshobon standards still in use today.14 Iwanami Shoten and the aforementioned Yūhikaku were particularly noteworthy cases of bookstores transforming into publishers, but they were not unique. Kanehara Shuppan, Sanseidō, and many other businesses went through similar transformations. In such cases, the bookseller’s own intellectual network and understanding of intellectual culture was an essential prerequisite for success as they sought to compete in new arenas of the book trade. Bookstores with solid clienteles that were linked to certain tiers of the intellectual community – poetry circles, student organizations, salons for young intellectuals, and so forth – were best-suited for this transition since they started with a group of readers and literary producers on hand. At times, innovations among bookstores had far-reaching consequences. For instance, the custom of having set prices for books was pioneered by Iwanami and widely copied by other bookstores, eventually leading to the pre-printed set prices affixed to Japanese books today. However, Iwanami himself adopted the idea from Nakamura-ya, the Shinjuku bakery run by Sōma Aizō and his wife Kokko.15 A devout Christian, Soma Aizō found the custom of haggling morally repugnant since it rewarded some people and not others; similarly he felt sales were unethical since they privileged customers who came one day while punishing those who came the next. He thus established set prices and made them a consistent part of the business.16 The idealism of Sōma mirrored that of Iwanami – in fact both had been strongly influenced by Christian philosopher Uchimura Kanzō in their formative years – and was by no means uncommon among the educated classes in the late Meiji era. This helps explain why despite the negative imagery associated with mercantile pursuits at the time, including selling and publishing books, people engaged in these behaviors who were themselves identified as intellectuals, like Iwanami Shigeo, often got a pass from their clientele, who were, after all, also their colleagues. The strong relationship between bookstore owners and their customers, grounded in a common intellectual worldview, was a key characteristic of the book trade in late Meiji Japan in general, but proprietors

14 Unlike Yūhikaku, Iwanami Shoten retained the same name after its development into a publisher. 15 The Sōma couple had originally been involved in silkworm production in Nagano before taking over the bakery in Tokyo; it became quite popular, especially after introducing kuriimu pan (custard brioche) to Japan. For more on Nakamura-ya, see Aizō’s memoir, Ichi Shōnin toshite: Shoshin to Taiken (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1972; originally published in 1938), and Kokkō’s autobiography, Mokui: Sōma Kokkō Jiden (Tokyo: Josei Jidaisha, 1936; reprinted by Heibonsha in 1999). 16 Sōma Aizō, op. cit., 56-59. Sōma uses the term “regular price” (seika hanbai) but the meaning here – pre-determined, unnegotiable prices not subject to discount – is identical.

271 who were themselves intellectuals gained an enormous advantage – provided they could safely navigate the minefield of social preconceptions relating to commerce and culture.

Book Towns What about book towns, the second and much larger of the physical and social spaces devoted to print culture? A book town could be described as the product of a clustering of a critical mass of educational institutions, bookstores, and publishers in a given area, whereupon said area becomes identified with the production, distribution and consumption of print culture. Book towns have been found around the world since early modern times, and Meiji Japan was no exception. For late Meiji intellectuals, the most obvious and important book town was Kanda-Jinbochō in Tokyo, and so that will be the focus of this section. Of course, the town of Kanda-Jinbochō still exists; it is located in the Chiyoda Ward of central eastern Tokyo, and actively promotes itself as “Hon no Machi” (“Book Town”). It has remained by far the town most associated with books not only in the greater Tokyo area but also in Japan as a whole, and is most famous for its vast numbers of used book stores.17 It also contains a large number of stores selling new books, and boasts numerous libraries as well as several major universities. Unsurprisingly, the town is also the center of Japan’s publishing industry, hosting the head offices of many of the most influential publishing houses. However, Kanda-Jinbochō’s emergence as a book town was actually a fairly recent development during the Meiji period.18 While in the seventeenth century Japan had experienced a print revolution that witnessed a dramatic increase in printing technology, the birth of mass-market publishers, and a wide diffusion of works across the archipelago – during which Edo was fast becoming a major center for the creation and retailing of books – Kanda-Jinbochō at the time was not related to this flourishing print culture at all. Rather, it was an area known for having numerous residences of the daimyō, the regional warrior-aristocrat lords who by law had to spend half the year living in Edo where the shogun’s government was based. By the mid-19th century the area was divided among the residences of the daimyō, and those of the hatamoto (shogunal retainers).19 The transformation from a town of high-ranking samurai to a town of books was a gradual process bound up with the larger socio-economic changes brought about by the Meiji Restoration of 1868. When the samurai ceased to exist as a social class, their former residences were left vacant. The large daimyō residences

17 The town’s official website lists 176 as of the present moment. See Jimbou Book Town official site, http://jimbou.info/ (accessed March 13, 2016). 18 For a brief outline of the history of Kanda-Jinbchō book town, see Wakimura Yoshitarō, Tōzai Shoshi Gaikō (Iwanami Shoten, 1979), especially the second part beginning on page 69. 19 In fact, the name “Kanda-Jinbochō” comes from the area being labelled “Kanda Town” in 1872 during the capital’s re-organization, and Jinbō Hōkinokami, a hatamoto who resided in the area at some point between the end of the 17th and the start of the 19th century.

272 were gradually replaced by schools and hospitals. Eventually some of the nation’s leading medical and educational institutions developed here and in the surrounding neighborhoods, including the expanded Juntendo Hospital (originally founded in 1838 as the first hospital in Japan to adopt Western medical practices), Hosei University, and Meiji University (the latter both founded in 1920), that still exist today.20 This intellectual transformation resulted in a locus of higher learning in the capital that was without equal, and that quickly attracted people from far and wide.21 Meanwhile, many small lots formerly housing retainers and their families become the homes of officials and the new wave of intellectuals. Former retainers who remained in the area had to seek out new livelihoods, at the same time that intellectuals and elite students from across the country gathered in the area to study. The most immediate demand among the new arrivals was for specialized books in law, economics, medicine, linguistics, and so on, and because of the difficulty and cost involved in acquiring these materials their readers tended to sell them to used book stores as soon as they finished using them. This created a substantial business opportunity in the area, particularly as less-affluent students increasingly sought second-hand books as a way of cutting down on their expenses. Consequently, the number of bookstores began to rapidly increase, forming one of the largest regional growth industries, enhanced by the gradual expansion of the education reading population over the course of the Meiji period. The first area merchant in the book trade was almost certainly Takayama Shoten, which was founded in 1875. The founder, originally employed as a bowyer for a daimyō and subsequently left unemployed when his former master returned to his home region, responded to the local economic situation by opening a used bookstore. Another notable early example was Nakanishi-ya, founded by Hayashi Yūteki in 1881. Hayashi, a colleague of the famous intellectual Fukuzawa Yukichi, had in 1869 founded Maruzen, a bookstore that specialized in importing foreign books.22 Nakanishi-ya was intended to serve student demand in Kanda-Jinbochō by selling remainders and damaged books that could not be moved at Maruzen’s main shop in Nihonbashi. 23 Both Takayama Shoten and Nakanishi-ya remain in business today, as do major Meiji-

20 Juntendo Hospital became Juntendo University in 1946. Postwar additions in the vicinity include Ochanomizu University and Tokyo University of Science, both founded in 1949. Many schools and intellectuals resided in parts of what is now Bunkyō Ward to the north, and the whole area thrived as an intellectual center. 21 See, for example, Suzuki Shōzō, op.cit., 71. 22 Maruzen took its name from “Maruya Zenpachi,” who was its supposed proprietor but was in fact just the fanciful invention of Hayashi. Hayashi himself is one of the people credited for the name of the dish “Hayashi rice,” although this cannot be confirmed with any certainty. For more on Maruzen, see Maruzen Kabushiki-gaisha, ed., Maruzen Hyakunenshi: Nihon Kindaika no Ayumi to tomo ni (Tokyo: Maruzen, 1980), and “Maruzen and the Foreign Book Trade,” in Olive Checkland, Japan and Britain after 1859: Creating Cultural Bridges (New York: Routledge, 2003), 59-72. 23 Uemura Seiji, “Bōekishōkai no Setsuritsu to Nakanishi-ya no Kaiten,” in Maruzen, op.cit., 94-96.

273 era retailers of new books such as Sanseidō, which was also founded in 1881 by the family of a hatamoto. By the turn of the century, Kanda-Jinbochō already contained a large number of merchants in the book trade. A map from 1903 shows many educational institutions flanked by clusters of bookstores and publishers. The area had thus gradually transitioned from an elite residential town, to a school town, to a book town.24 Some of the publishers had evolved from bookstores, as was the case with Yūhikaku and Iwanami Shoten, discussed above. There were also publishers that had other origins. For example, when Noma Seiji, a staff member at Tokyo Imperial University – which had settled in Hongō district near Kanda-Jinbōchō – recruited students from the debate club to publish a magazine together, this resulted in the birth of what was to become the biggest Japanese publisher, Kōdansha. By the turn of the century, while it did not yet physically resemble the town of today, which was largely a product of reconstruction and development after the Great Kantō Earthquake of 1923, Kanda-Jinbōchō had nonetheless firmly established itself as a key social space of the Japanese intellectual world.25 It was the go-to place for both new and used books, and moreover was already a popular destination for the social activities associated with book hunting and collecting. Students, writers and scholars alike met their friends and colleagues and enjoyed browsing together and discussing their finds over tea at local cafes. These social elements of the print culture environment were merely expanded rather than replaced as, during the last years of the Meiji era and the dawn of Taishō, more and more emphasis was placed on books. Across a broad spectrum of Japanese society, the very act of reading, including reading as a form of social performance, became associated with intellectual and cultural sophistication, and the many merchants of Kanda-Jinbōchō were able to capitalize on this, framing themselves as no longer merely providers for the elite, but as an essential component of modern urban life.

Conclusion This piece has sought to offer some sense of the character of bookstores and book towns in the late Meiji era, considering in particular the town of Kanda- Jinbochō and some of the more influential bookstores that developed in its vicinity. It is difficult in our digitally interconnected world to fully comprehend how important such spaces were to intellectuals of the day, who often felt isolated within society as a whole and had to depend upon these vital institutions not only for the provision of intellectual sustenance in the form of books themselves, but also for links to the broader intellectual community, and indeed to some extent for aspects of their identity as intellectuals. Bookstores and book towns enabled students, writers and the like to support their endeavors while according them an

24 See map at “Koshotengai no Ikijibiki: Yagi Fukujirō ni Kiku,” http://go- jimbou.info/hon/special/071020_01.html (accessed March 13, 2016). 25 That being said, after the earthquake many stores were rebuilt in the same locations as before. Examining pre-earthquake maps of the area reveals numerous stores such as Sanseidō occupying essentially the same locations that they do today.

274 opportunity to socially perform the role of “intellectual”; these institutions are therefore worthy of further study not only from the perspective of print culture but also as an aspect of Meiji social and cultural history more broadly.

REFERENCES Abe, Y. 1957. Iwanami Shigeo-den. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten. Beach, S. 1959. Shakespeare and Company. New York: Harcourt, Brace and Company. Checkland, O. 2003. “Maruzen and the Foreign Book Trade.” In Checkland, Japan and Britain after 1859: Creating Cultural Bridges. New York: Routledge: 59-72. Fitch, N. R. 1983. Sylvia Beach and the Lost Generation: A History of Literary Paris in the Twenties and Thirties. New York: Norton. Hayashibara, K. 1971. Sōseki Sanbō no Hitobito. Tokyo: Kōdansha. Iwanami Shoten (ed.). 1996. Iwanami Shoten Hachi-jū-nen. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten. Jimbou Book Town official site. Accessed March 13, 2016. Kamei-Dyche, A. 2009. “Rojin to Deatta Nihonjin: Uchiyama Shoten to Senzen Nichū Kankei no Saikō.” Shisōshi Kenkyū 10: 105-115. _____. 2011. “The History of Books and Print Culture in Japan: The State of the Discipline.” Book History 14: 270-304. Kan, S. 2001. Media no Jidai: Meiji Bungaku wo meguru Jōkyō. Tokyo: Sōbunsha Shuppan. Keaveney, C. T. 2009. Beyond Brushtalk: Sino-Japanese Literary Exchange in the Interwar Period. Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 2009. Kobayashi, I. 1963. Sekireki-so Shujin: Hitotsu no Iwanami Shigeo-den. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten. Kōno, K. 2013. Monogatari: Iwanami Shoten Hyakunen-shi. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten. “Koshotengai no Ikijibiki: Yagi Fukujirō ni Kiku.” Accessed March 13, 2016. Lee, L. O-F. 1999. Shanghai Modern: The Flowering of a New Urban Culture in China, 1930-1945. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Marcus, M. 2009. Reflections in a Glass Door: Memory and Melancholy in the Personal Writing of Natsume Soseki. Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press. Maruzen Kabushiki-gaisha (ed.). 1980. Maruzen Hyakunenshi: Nihon Kindaika no Ayumi to tomo ni. Tokyo: Maruzen. Matsuki, S. 1986. Honya Ichidaiki: Kyōto Nishikawa Seikōdō. Tokyo: Chikuma Shobō. Matsuoka, Y. 1967. Aa Sōseki Sanbō. Tokyo: Asahi Shinbunsha. Nakajima, T. 2013. Iwanami Shigeo: Riberaru Nashonarisuto no Shōzō. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten. Natsume, Sōseki. Inside My Glass Doors. Trans. Sammy I. Tsunematsu (2002). Tokyo: Tuttle Publishing.

275 Oda, M. 2003. Shoten no Kindai: Hon ga Kagayaiteita Jidai. Tokyo: Heibonsha, 2003. Shōji, S. 1978. Nihon no Shobutsu: Kodai kara Gendai made. Tokyo: Bijutsu Shuppansha. Sōma, A. 1972. Ichi Shōnin toshite: Shoshin to Taiken. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1972. Sōma, K. 1936. Mokui: Sōma Kokkō Jiden. Tokyo: Josei Jidaisha. Suzuki, S. 1985. Nihon no Shuppankai wo Kizuita Hitobito. Tokyo: Kashiwa Shobō. Tokyo Asahi Shinbun. 12 September 1913. Tsunematsu, I. 1997. “Rondon Shōsoku: Sōseki to Rondon no Furuhonya, Konjaku.” Sōseki Kenkyū 8: 215-221. Uchida, H. 1954. Sōseki Sanbō no Ki. Tokyo: Kadokawa Bunko. Uchiyama, K. 1960. Kakōroku. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten. Wakimura, Y. 1979. Tōzai Shoshi Gaikō. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten.

276 FROM CONCEPTION TO ADULTHOOD— CHILDREN’S RITES OF PASSAGE IN JAPANESE SOCIETY Carmen SĂPUNARU TĂMAȘ*

Abstract: The present paper is a short overview of Japanese practices and rituals associated with each significant stage in a child’s life, from the moments before birth—announcing and celebrating the pregnancy—to the ceremony that marks the beginning of life as an adult. I have borrowed Arnold Van Gennep’s concept of “rites of passage” in order to emphasize the idea of transition from one age to another, each being a joyous occasion that requires formal celebration. In my description of family traditions such as Obi-iwai, Miya-mairi, Hina-matsuri, Kodomo-no-hi, Shichi-go-san, or Seijin-shiki, I try to analyze the relationship between the sacred and the community, as well as the shift from a religious practice (making offerings to appease the gods and acquire their benevolence towards the new member of the community) to social ritual—the practice that focuses on the individual, and his/her bond with the family and the community. Keywords: rites of passage, children, Japanese society

“I understand why we invented God and why cling to him with both hands—because we’re the only species on the planet that’s aware it’s going to die.” (Carolla 2010: 144) A quote from a comedian might seem out of place in the context of an academic paper, but anthropologically speaking it is extremely relevant, as a reflection of the shift in common mentality, perspective, acceptance and freedom of the individual. Religion has lost much of its society-regulating role, as well as its power of controlling people’s lives, which means that getting away from the religious tradition while preserving another kind of ritual has become commonplace in contemporary society. The present paper focuses on the rituals and ceremonies marking each essential step in the life of an individual from the moment of conception to the passing into adulthood, and my analysis, while not exhaustive, will show how, although the connection with religion has been essentially altered, the ritual is a living and flourishing organism.

1. Conception and birth A child’s importance not only for the family, but also for the community whose new member he or she will become is apparent in the customs and traditions surrounding the conception, birth and all the significant stages that

* Assistant Professor, Graduate School of Humanities and Faculty of Letters, Kobe University

277 follow. Although not yet born, the child turns into a real presence within the community from the moment pregnancy is announced. In the old times, the maternal grandmother would go around the village with small presents of ritual food (rice and fish), to inform the neighbors and acquaintances of the blessing that had been bestowed on her daughter. Also, in some cases, a simple meal would be offered to well wishers who visited the house of the future mother. While this custom may not be so common nowadays, especially in big cities, it is true that families still make a celebration, however small, of the moment when a pregnancy is announced. A further step towards integrating the new life within the community is another way of making the pregnancy public: Obi-iwai, the symbolic moment when the pregnant woman wraps a special girdle around her waist, thus visibly proclaiming her condition and acquiring magical protection for her fetus, as well as ensuring a safe and easy birth. Obi-iwai (literally – “girdle celebration”, but the name differs from area to area, other common expressions being obi kake – “putting on the girdle”, obi morai – “receiving the girdle” or obi mawashi – “wrapping the girdle”) takes place during the fifth month or the seventh month of pregnancy, on the day of the Dog, as female dogs are supposed to have easy labours1. Kunio Yanagita (1975: 206) describes an interesting custom performed both as a way of celebrating the pregnancy and of predicting the sex of the baby. In some villages from the Gifu Prefecture, the future parents receive a gift of red and white rice cakes, each cake containing two soybeans. If they split the beans when cutting the rice cake, the baby will be a girl; if the beans remain intact, the baby will be a boy. However, this custom is limited to the firstborn, thus emphasizing the high status of a firstborn in traditional societies. The ritual practices surrounding the actual birth focus more on the mother (and all the taboos related to blood pollution) than on the child; until after the Second World War, rural communities still had special huts called ubuya, where pregnant women would retire to give birth and where they would stay for up to several weeks following the birth, in order to avoid contaminating the community with their bodies defiled by blood and pain. These birthing huts (first recorded in writing in 712, in Kojiki, the oldest Japanese chronicle, where the creator god Izanagi proclaims that he will build 1,500 birthing huts daily, to compensate for the 1,000 souls his enraged spouse Izanami threatens to kill everyday2) were usually built outside the village and as far as possible from the village shrine. However, Tōru Yagi (2001: 8~11) mentions that in Fukuchiyama (Kyoto Prefecture), the ubuya was built in close proximity to Ōbara Shrine, with the entrance actually facing the shrine. Yagi explains this paradox as a way to present, even before the formal ceremony that will follow, the child to the local god, praying for its and its mother’s health and wellbeing. His interpretation is most likely accurate, as many of the ceremonies and rituals that mark various

1 Fieldwork conducted in 2013, at Nakayama-dera Temple in Takarazuka City, Hyogo Prefecture. 2 Kojiki: 49

278 stages in a child’s life involve interacting (at a symbolical level, of course) with the local god.

2. The First Three Years The first major ceremony in the life of a child is its first visit to the Shintō shrine, event which can take place 21, 30, 75 or 100 days after birth and which is an occasion to “introduce” the child to the local deity. The reason for a lack of coherence regarding the actual day when a child should be taken to the shrine for the first time can be found in the various beliefs that underlie this custom: the ceremony may be performed earlier due to the wish of relieving the child of the birth impurity taboo, or it may be performed later due to the opposite reason, namely, a breastfed child still shares the impurity taboo with the mother, so they should visit the shrine together, at the end of the taboo period. Another explanation can be found in the belief that the hundredth day is the day to visit the Birth Protecting God. Yanagita also believes that originally this first visit to the shrine took place 100 days after birth, this being an important day as it coincided with the period when the baby started eating solid food. On this day, a small stone was placed on the baby’s food tray, in an act of imitative magic whose purpose was to bless the child with good strong teeth3. The first visit to the shrine is called Miya-mairi, Hatsumiya-mōde or Momoka in some areas, and it is one of the many symbolical gestures meant to turn the child into a full-fledged member of the community. On this day, the child and his mother are considered pure enough to step on the sacred grounds, where the baby will be acknowledged as a parishioner by the local priest, from whom he or she will receive a wooden prayer tablet. Being a celebratory occasion, members of the family offer gifts for the baby; in contemporary society, the gifts are usually money placed in a beautifully decorated envelope.

Baby boy after his Miya-mairi, with the money envelopes attached to the traditional robe4

3 p. 227 4 Photo courtesy of Ms. Kikuko Sano.

279 Since Miya-mairi represents a formal announcement of the baby’s existence to the protecting deity, the baby must be induced to cry – in the old times, this was easily done by lightly slapping or pinching the child; the newer psychological guidelines force parents to simply wait until the baby starts crying naturally, usually from hunger or fatigue –to make its presence known to the gods. This custom, although performed individually, is closely related to the Nakizumō (“crying sumo”) matsuri, which is spread in various regions of Japan, and where two toddlers, both boys and girls, are involved in a mock sumo competition. Children under the age of two are allowed to participate, being held by sumo wrestlers until they begin to cry, the child who cries first being deemed the winner and a sign of good luck and prosperity for its family.

Nakizumō at Chōkōji Temple, Shizuoka Prefecture5 During Nakizumō, crying is an auspicious gesture and, as in the case of the first visit to the shrine, a way of communicating with the gods and asking for their blessings in a special, magical language. It is considered that the harder a child cries during Miya-mairi, the stronger it will grow and the happier its life will be. Also associated with fertility rites and, in some cases, ritual crying is Hina-matsuri, commonly known in English as the Doll Festival. Nowadays, Hina-matsuri is widely celebrated on March 3rd (although the dates differ according to the area and the main significance of the ritual), being generally viewed as the Girls’ Day. Immediately after Setsubun6, families with girls take out and set doll arrangements that range from seven-tiered gorgeous doll displays to simple miniature decorations such as two symbolic dolls made of glass, ceramic or colored paper.

5 Fieldwork conducted in May 2005. 6 February 3rd, the day marking the New Year according to the lunar calendar, when various rituals and prayers are performed. Setsubun is considered to mark the end of winter and beginning of spring.

280 Traditional doll display at Yamaguchi Residence, in Sakai City, Osaka Prefecture Typically, such a doll setting includes a central pair called dairi-bina, representing the emperor and the empress, who are often accompanied by sannin kanjo (“three Court ladies”) and gonin bayashi (“five musicians”). Fresh or artificial sprigs of peach blossoms, offerings of sweet sake and diamond-shaped rice cakes complete the display, although more lavish settings may include more dolls and various accessories, such as miniature pieces of furniture, chests of clothes, carriages, kitchens and hearths. This festival is widely spread in contemporary Japan, and from February until April, in various locations around the country, exquisite doll exhibitions are held, together with the more traditional rituals performed during the Hina-matsuri. Little girls receive hina doll gifts on their first Hina-matsuri, and similar gifts are sent to families who have a new daughter-in-law. An interesting custom can still be observed in most parts of Japan: on a girl’s first Hina-matsuri, a big mochi (“glutinous rice cake”) weighing up to two kilograms is made, wrapped in a piece of silk and tied to the little girl’s back. The cake is called tanjō-mochi (“birthday mochi”) or seoi-mochi (“mochi to be carried on the back”) and the custom has various interpretations. According to some, making a child who has barely started walking carry such a heavy weight means getting the child accustomed to the hardships she will have to face in the future. Another interpretation is that the oversized cake is a symbol of plenty: the girl will never suffer from hunger her entire life. The fact that the little girl will definitely stumble and fall under the weight on her back is associated to the belief that girls usually leave their parents when they grow up, but the rice cake will symbolically tie them to and make them return to their home and family.

281 Little girl struggling to lift the heavy mochi7 The dolls that can been seen during Hina-matsuri are commonly represented in attire specific to the Heian period, and that is why it is often thought that the custom of displaying dolls on March 3rd began in the 8th or 9th century, yet the first records of such a practice appear only in the 17th century, during the Edo period. That does not mean, however, that the dolls do not have a longer history within the Japanese culture. The word hina is thought to have meant “small thing”, that is, a miniature representation of something else. In the case of dolls, they were actually representations of human beings and, under the name hitogata, were used in purification rituals, when all impurities, diseases and misfortune were transferred upon dolls, which were then cast away into the sea or rivers.

Floating dolls at Kamigamo Shrine, Kyoto8

7 Photo courtesy of Mrs. Junko Kanayama. 8 Fieldwork conducted in March 2010.

282 The practice is mentioned in the old Japanese chronicles as a method of cleansing oneself and getting rid not only of impurities, but also of one’s sins, and we can assume that at some point in history there was a shift from real human victims to human-shaped dolls. Sacrifice by drowning is a fertility ritual encountered in many cultures of the world. If we look at the Mexican cenotes (to give just an example) – ritual pools created nearby temples, where human victims were drowned during religious ceremonies – it becomes clear that in Japan, as anywhere else, it was originally human beings who were sacrificed by drowning, their place being taken in later times by dolls which resembled a human body. In modern times, the Nagashi-bina (“the casting of dolls into water”) is performed at various shrines and temples across the country, one of the most famous ceremonies being held at Awashima-jinja, in Wakayama Prefecture. The shrine is known because the deities Sukunahikona-no-mikoto, the God of Medicine, and Okinagatarashi-hime-no-mikoto are supposed to cure female ailments and infertility. The goddess Okinagatarashi-hime-no-mikoto, who was the consort of Sumiyoshi Myōjin, became afflicted with a female disease and was exiled to Awashima, where she vowed to cure all women who came to pray there. Awashima-jinja is the place where hina dolls from all over the country are collected before March 3rd, when they are put in three wooden boats and let drift into the sea. The ceremony begins at noon, when the priest performs the ritual purification, after which the three boats containing the dolls are carried to the shore by women only. Any female participant in the festival is welcome to join in carrying the boat for a certain length of time, as long as they respect the silence taboo – while shouldering the boats, speaking is strictly forbidden. An explanation of this taboo may be the fact that the dolls are not mere old toys to be discarded, but they also represent sacrificial victims who acquire a divine status. In all cultures, the sacrificial victim becomes a messenger to the gods, closer to the sacred than any other participant in the ritual, and thus a character to be revered and worshipped. Once the boats reach the shore, another short purification ritual is performed and then the dolls are cast into the sea.

Floating dolls at Awashima-jinja

283 In the old times, apparently children were supposed to weep while bidding their farewell to the dolls, thus emphasizing once more their divine status, but nowadays the weeping has been replaced with a song performed by girls from the local kindergarten9. The ritual significance of this ceremony becomes evident if we consider the fact that not only the floating dolls, but also the dolls from the house displays are viewed as a link with the sacred world; they are often seen as yorishiro, namely the temporary abode of the gods who descend to bless the house and the girls within. The Hina-matsuri itself represents a unique celebration of fertility, that which is budding both in the recently awakened nature and in the little girls, delicately symbolized by the peach blossoms; it is an occasion to renew the bonds with the natural world and to have yet another glimpse into the sacred, through the ephemeral gate opened by the floating dolls. The counterpart of Hina-matsuri is Kodomo-no-hi (“the Boys’ Festival”), celebrated on May 5th. Although the rituals surrounding this particular ceremony are less intricate than those performed at Hina-matsuri, the decorations are no less lavish and spectacular. This is an occasion to pray for the boys’ health, safety and happiness, the traditional house displays including miniature armors, dolls and carps.

Kodomo-no-hi altar, together with its beneficiaries10 This day is also known as Tango-no-sekku, being one of the five sekku (“seasonal holidays”) officially established during the Tokugawa Shogunate. On this day, besides displaying warrior dolls, families with boys would set up flying- carp streamers, while the boys themselves would participate in kurabe-uma (“horse racing”), yabusame (“horseback archery competitions”) or they would fly kites. Customs still practiced today are eating kashiwa-mochi (“rice cakes wrapped in oak leaves”) and taking baths in water steeped with irises. The carp streamers, called koinobori, are well known and their origin lies in a legend according to which the carp was the only fish brave enough to

9 Fieldwork conducted in February—March 2006, March 2010, March 2013. 10 Photo courtesy of Ms. Kikuko Sano.

284 swim upstream, past the Dragon Gate, at which point the carp itself turned into a dragon, a magical and powerful creature. The carp’s ability to go beyond the unknown and the hardships has become emblematic; that is why the carp streamers displayed on Boys’ Day are a form of prayer for the children of the house to become endowed with the same noble qualities as the legendary carp. This practice is so widely spread in contemporary Japan that it may seem ancient, yet its roots are also in the Edo period, when warrior families started displaying warrior dolls in their houses and carp figurines at the gates, around the Tango- no-sekku day. The musha-ningyō (“warrior dolls”) represent historical figures such as Empress Jingū, Minamoto no Yoshitsune or the Emperor Jimmu, as well as legendary characters such as Momotarō the Peach Boy, or Kintarō the Golden Boy (both are heroes from Japanese folklore, boys endowed with supernatural abilities working for the good of humankind). More than Hina-matsuri, which is closely connected to fertility rituals and new year practices, Kodomo-no-hi appears as a true celebration of childhood, when the multicolored carp streamers flying against the clear blue sky of the month of May suggest infinite freedom and unlimited possibilities for the children who have not yet stepped into the adult world. It is a day when childhood may seem eternal, lush and full of vitality like the beginning of summer, a day when modest fish may turn into royal dragons and the borders between worlds become a little more transparent than usual.

3. Becoming fully human The next stage in a child’s development, which is also an important step towards acknowledging the child as a true member of the community concentrated around a certain shrine, is the Shichi-go-san ceremony. As the name indicates (literally, shichi-go-san means 7-5-3), this particular celebration is held for boys who have reached the ages of three or five, and for girls who have reached the ages of three or seven. The belief that 3, 5 and 7 are lucky numbers originates in the Chinese doctrine of the yin, yang, and the five elements, doctrine that was further developed in Japan as Onmyōdō11. An example worth mentioning here is that of the traditional Japanese meal, honzen ryōri, composed of three main dishes: honzen (“main dish”), ninozen (“second dish”) and sannozen (“third dish”). Honzen consisted of nanasai – seven pieces of food, ninozen consisted of gosai – five pieces of food and sannozen consisted, predictably, of sansai – three pieces of food.

11 “While being based on the Chinese theory of yinyang-wuxing (Yin-Yang and the "five phases of matter"), Onmyōdō was a unique Japanese adaptation that established itself around the tenth century […] as a religion of magic.” (Hayashi Makoto—http://k- amc.kokugakuin.ac.jp/DM/dbSearchList.do;jsessionid=E6C9B432A2247EA2961A7D254 3F50BBA?class_name=col_eos&search_condition_type=1&db_search_condition_type= 0&View=0&focus_type=0&startNo=1&searchFreeword=onmyodo&searchRangeType=0 retrieved on 2016/03/25)

285 Three sisters participating in the Shichi-go-san ceremony at Sumiyoshi Taisha12 Shichi-go-san has now become a festival with deep roots in Japanese tradition, where the belief in lucky numbers has combined with childhood rites of passage. Three was the age when children’s hair (until then cropped closely to the head) was allowed to grow, in a ceremony called kami-oki, which marked the end of infanthood. At five, the hakama-gi ritual was performed, namely, boys who reached that age were allowed to wear a hakama (a traditional formal dress for the lower part of the body, usually made of stiff silk), a garment reserved for grown-ups, for the first time in their lives.

Five-year old boy proudly wearing his first hakama13

12 Photo courtesy of Ms. Kaori Matsunaga. 13 Photo courtesy of Ms. Kikuko Sano.

286 Girls participated in a similar ritual at the age of seven, when the narrow belt they had worn until then was replaced by the wider obi – the sophisticated girdle worn with a kimono in a ceremony called obi-toki. Nowadays, the Shichi-go-san ceremony is performed at shrines across the country on November 15th, for all children who have reached one of the symbolical ages during that year. According to the Onmyōdō practices, the 15th of the 11th month was an auspicious day, yet it did not become the official date for this childhood rite of passage until the Edo period, when the fifth Tokugawa Shōgun, Tsunayoshi, held special festivities on that day for his son, Tokumatsu. In modern times, November 15th is an occasion for family celebrations – children visit the shrine accompanied by members of their families, and their names are officially inscribed in the shrine records. They become thus full-fledged ujiko (“parishioners”) and are blessed with prayers for good luck, health and happiness.

4. Coming-of-age Seijin-shiki represents the coming-of-age ritual, which marks the end of childhood and the passage into the adult society, with all the rights and responsibilities it implies. Like most Japanese traditions, there are various names for this ceremony, depending on the area and the sex of the individual. In the case of boys, it was called genpuku (“head-wearing”, an indication of the particular hairstyle and hat the young man receives during the ceremony), eboshi (special hat worn during their coming-of-age), or hitai-tori (the particular hairstyle the boy receives when he is acknowledged as a man). For girls, the celebration was called yumoji (“a special girdle for women”) iwai or kane-iwai (where kane is the dye used by nubile women to blacken their teeth). In both cases, the choice of words clearly suggests the transformation of the child into an active member of the community, who was ready to establish his or her own family. At the beginning of Meiji period, the boys’ coming-of-age ceremony was usually performed around the age of fifteen, when their hairstyle was changed and their child name was replaced by their adult name. For girls, the ceremony took place at the age of thirteen (most likely the age when they started menstruating), when their teeth were blackened with a special dye. For boys, as well as for girls, this was the moment when they were considered adults for the first time, and boys could start working, while the girls could get married. In modern times, the Seijin-shiki is performed on a designated day, the second Monday of January, when all young people who reached the legal age of adulthood (twenty in Japan) between April 1st of the previous year and March 31st of the current year are invited to the local city hall to celebrate this significant day of their lives. Not surprisingly, this is a formal occasion when girls (and sometimes boys) don exquisite kimonos and book well in advance the services of professional photographers. After the ceremony at the city hall, most attendants go to shrines, to pray for good luck in their new life as adults.

287 Young girl in a ceremonial kimono The ceremony as it is known today has a fairly recent origin, having been declared a national holiday in 1948—most likely, one of the official attempts of reinstating the lost pride of the Japanese youth—and until 1999, it was celebrated on January 15th. Following the introduction of the Happy Monday System (a change to Japanese law that moved certain national holidays to Mondays, thus creating three-day “weekends”), Seijin-no-hi, the Coming of Age Day was moved to the second Monday of January. While the other ceremonies mentioned so far are organized and controlled by the parents, Seijin-shiki is the first where the youths have the power to choose details (what kind of clothes— Western style or Japanese style— and what kind of design, whether to attend the public ceremony or not, how and with whom to celebrate afterwards). This newly acquired freedom can sometimes lead to behaviour so unruly that it is mentioned even by non-Japanese publications14, while the Japanese media cover each year some undesirable incident—drinking, altercations with the police—that took place on the Coming of Age Day. While this change in behaviour, completely different from the quiet dignity with which the older generations acknowledged the transition from childhood to maturity and all the responsibility that accompanies it, is loudly deplored in contemporary society, we must note that ritually speaking, the chaotic and apparently irrational gestures can easily be explained. In a symbolic view of the world, chaos always precedes order, and some kind of destruction is the source of all creation, which means that, although they are most like unaware of what they are doing and simply want to celebrate both the beginning (as an adult) and the end (as a child) of freedom, young people nowadays are simply following universal patterns of behaviour. * During an interview, a representative from Sumiyoshi Grand Shrine in Osaka deplored the fact that the ceremonies conducted there—Miya-mairi, Shichi-go-san—are no longer for the gods, but for the people. In other words,

14 The Telegraph from January 15th, 2002, has an article on the Japanese Coming of Age Ceremony in its Asia section. http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/asia/japan/1381592/Drunken-Japanese- youths-ruin-coming-of-age-rituals.html

288 people try less to placate and please the gods, while focusing more on family and personal relationships. As mentioned in the introduction, religion has lost its grasp on the individual and the community, being replaced by a combination of science and law. In Japanese society, religion is definitely less prominent than it used to be, but religious practice is still flourishing and plays an important role in the lives of the contemporary Japanese.

REFERENCES: Carolla, A. 2010. In Fifty Years We’ll All Be Chicks, Crown Publishing Group, New York. Fukuta, Ajio et al. (ed.). 1999. Nihon Minzoku Daijiten, Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, Tokyo. Haga, H. 1997. Nihon no Minzoku, Kureo, Tokyo. Kojiki. 2003. Shogakkan, Tokyo. Koresawa, H. 2015. Kodomo wo iwau. Tango no sekku to Hina-matsuri, Tankosha, Tokyo. Yagi, T. 2001. Nihon no Tsuka Girei, Bukkyo University, Kyoto. Yanagita, K. 1975. Zenshū, vol.15, Chikuma Shobō, Tokyo.

289 A ROMANIAN COMMUNITY IN OSAKA: A CASE STUDY OF CLASS DISCRIMINATION IN TWO LANGUAGES Adrian Ovidiu TĂMAȘ* Carmen SĂPUNARU TĂMAȘ#

Abstract: The idea for this research topic came to me after listening to a Romanian acquaintance speak first in Romanian, then in Japanese. Coming from a poor gypsy community from the south of Romania, A. had barely finished high school and her speech contained clear markers of her social background. Her Japanese, however, learned from her Buddhist priest husband and her mother-in-law, sounded cultured and elegant. Focused on fieldwork conducted at a bar in Osaka, owned by a former Romanian hostess and tended by a Romanian man, as well as on numerous interviews, our paper will analyze the language choices made by other Romanian hostesses who tend to gather there when their regular hours are over. The concept of social class is less defined in Japan compared to other societies, but the lines and borders exist and it is our purpose to try to define them. Keywords: stigma, prestige, discrimination, immigration, hostess

When I first came to Japan, one of the things that made a deep impression on me was the apparent lack of social class distinction and prejudice. I come from Romania, a country where the former communist regime had tried to erase the idea of “social class”, an attempt that was successful only at the ideological level. In principle, we were all “comrades”, yet I, the priest’s son, received a definitely different kind of treatment at school from my friend, Jacob, who came from a poor family, missed a lot of classes and, to put it bluntly, smelled quite bad. While claiming to treat all people equally, my mother had clearly and loudly told me that it would be unconceivable, unacceptable and completely forbidden for me to marry a seamstress (that was the first job that had come to my mind in a bout of teenage rebellion). My father, the priest, or my father-in-law, the doctor, would meet people from various backgrounds and even share a meal with them, if circumstances dictated it, but those people would never be invited to a family event. The separation was as clear as possible, and understood on both ends. In Japan, however, I often attended parties (private, and in no way related to business) where the elegant owner of several hospitals, the president of a major bank and a guy who cleans windows for a living happily drank together

* Assistant Professor, Osaka Electro-Communication University # Assistant Professor, Graduate School of Humanities and Faculty of Letters, Kobe University

290 and arranged a trip to the mountains. Although I cannot claim that my grasp of the Japanese language is sufficient to allow me to perceive all subtleties of tone and word usage, not for a moment did I have the impression that there was a significant gap between the members of the group mentioned above. That does not mean the hierarchy does not exist—it does and it can be very strict, but, as Joy Hendry puts it, “hierarchical relations exist throughout […], but the simultaneous expressions of equality should not be forgotten.” (Hendry 2013: 92) Like in Japanese, in Romanian the choice of words, grammar, and intonation would establish social borders, but unlike Japan, those borders would not be easy to cross. The difference is even more striking when listening to the same person change social status the moment she changed the language, and I am talking here about an acquaintance who first gave me the idea for this study. Coming from a poor gypsy community from the south of Romania, A. had barely finished high school and her speech contained clear markers of her social background. Her Japanese, however, learned from her Buddhist priest husband and her mother-in-law, sounded cultured and elegant. This apparent paradox represents the origin of our current paper, which focuses on a group of Romanian female immigrants currently living and working in Namba, the southern part of central Osaka and it began as a study in sociolingustics1. More precisely, my intention was to analyze how belonging to a social class is reflected in and influences language acquisition. However, as research progressed, I had to move on from a purely linguistic topic to the more delicate one of discrimination. The subjects of my study come from economically underdeveloped Romanian villages and most often had been the subject of prejudice even before coming to Japan. The initial working project was identifying whether speech patterns (preference for grammar forms, vocabulary, intonation) change or not with the acquisition of a new language, one that is entirely different from the mother tongue, and with the change of environment. Initially, I gave the following questionnaire to about 30 Osaka-based young Romanian women:

1. How long have you been in Japan? 2. Did you study Japanese before coming to Japan? 3. Where did you study Japanese? For how long? What textbooks did you use? 4. What is your current level of Japanese? (a) N24; (b) N3; (c) N2, (d) N1; (e) conversation level; (f) business level 5. What was the most difficult part in learning Japanese? 6. What do you continue to find difficult? 7. What expressions peculiar to the Japanese language do you find useful or use frequently? 8. What expressions do you find difficult to remember or use? 9. Regarding daily life in Japan, what do you like the most? 10. Regarding daily life in Japan, what bothers you the most?

1 Fieldwork conducted from 2012 to 2015. 2 Nihongo Nōryoku Shiken, Japanese Language Proficiency Test

291 The questionnaire was designed to help me collect data not through the answers themselves, but through the recording and analyzing their speech patterns in both languages. However, while talking to these women I came to a sad conclusion: for reasons that I am going to explain in this paper, they had been discriminated in their home country, and they are still discriminated in Japan. Even sadder, without being aware of it, I had started my study in a similarly discriminatory frame of mind. Link & Phelan, in their study on stigma, assert that “many social scientists who do not belong to the stigmatized groups, and who study stigma, do so from the vantage point of theories that are uninformed by the lived experience of the people they study”, which leads to “a misunderstanding of the experience of the people who are stigmatized and the perpetuation of unsubstantiated assumptions.” (2001: 365) This is precisely my experience. In Romania, the subjects of my study are stigmatized because of a lower social background, associated with poverty and immorality, Roma ethnicity, and lack of education. Since the first twelve years of education are still free in Romania, all of my subjects have graduated from high school, but we would have never moved in similar circles. Before puberty, they would have been those children whose parents did not afford fancy clothes, lots of books, or private lessons, parents who held low-income, often despised (unjustly, but that does not change reality) jobs, so they would have had few if not zero opportunities to mix with children from the upper classes. As a researcher, I am now aware of the fact that I was not better, just luckier, but it took me more than twenty years and studies in anthropology to be able to overcome the boundaries and prejudices established by social class. With the end of the communist regime, the freedom of movement across country borders offered endless opportunities to people seeking an escape from poverty and, while men found jobs mostly as construction workers, gardeners or caretakers, women fell into two categories: those who held decent jobs (waitresses, nurses, house maids) and those who worked in what in Japan would be called the mizu shobai3 business. Those who chose the latter category did so because it meant more money (in some cases) or were forced, in other cases, lured away from home with the promise of a day job and financial security for them and their families. In both cases, once a woman is associated with the sex industry, she becomes the recipient of a stigma that can rarely be removed. A recent study4 in human trafficking in Romania has showed that many women who are kidnapped do not seek help because they are ashamed and because they know that, even if they are able to escape, they can never return to a home where only a big scarlet letter awaits them. In this respect, Japan presents a different case, because a hostess in Japan is not a prostitute5, and sex with customers is often discouraged by hostess clubs

3 The term mizu shobai includes all businesses that offer food and drinks, but it refers particularly to bars and other similar drinking establishments, as well as the sex industry. 4 Romania’s Disappearing Girls: Sex Trafficking in Romania, http://projects.aljazeera.com/2015/08/sex-trafficking-in- romania/index.html?utm_content=nobylines (retrieved on 2015/08/25) 5 Anne Allison gives the following definition of the hostess job: “Precisely what kind of

292 as it would only create complications. Thus, despite being 10,000 km away from home, having a radically different culture and an almost impossible to learn language, Japan became an attractive option for pretty girls who wanted to escape poverty and the limitations of their social background. As the informant mentioned in my introduction, the one who eventually married a Buddhist priest, told me, “I was the only one in my family who went to high school, because we could not afford either the bus fare every day or the dorm fee to go to high school in the next town. And I did not want to work in the fields.” Her story is one of success: she married a young, attractive and extremely rich man, who is deeply in love with her, and managed to financially support her entire family. This seems to be the case with most of the women I interviewed, and who had stories with a happy end, which automatically leads to the question of whether social class difference is less prominent in Japan or whether it is easier to move between strata in Japanese society. Evidence points to the contrary: a Japanese male informant in his late thirties told me that he would marry a former hostess (“if she were beautiful”, mind you), but the situation would be unacceptable for his parents. Other Japanese people I interviewed, both male and female, had similar opinions, and the business world seems to agree. In other words, both in Romania and in Japan (where the circumstances are simply more subtle, not necessarily much different) there appears to be a double stigma attached to these young women: before they leave their communities, they bear the stigma of poverty, low educational level and, sometimes, Roma ethnicity. Once they leave to work abroad, they indiscriminately bear the stigma of prostitution. The Romanian my informants speak is, without a single exception in all the data I managed to collect from conversations, interviews and Facebook conversations, an indicator of very low education: broken grammar, inaccurate word usage and spelling. I have also noticed a tendency towards the use of diminutives (created in Romanian by adding specific suffixes), often observed in Romania among the mothers of young children, but also associated in most cases with a lack of proper education, as well as preference for certain words, such as “girl”, “darling”, “honey”, “love” when addressing each other. The word for “husband” is usually replaced by a possessive pronoun, “mine”, as in “Mine— instead of ‘my husband’—doesn’t like Romanian food”, an expression that does not appear frequently in the Romanian spoken in Romania. However, the reasoning behind this choice of words (seeing the husband as an asset, distancing oneself from one’s spouse and so on) is better left to the psychologist, not the social anthropologist. When it comes to Japanese, the language they use falls into two categories: 1) those women who are still working as hostesses would be defined by the service is given at a hostess club and by what kind of woman depends somewhat on the individual club, particularly on its price and its degree of classinesss. Four factors, however, are universal: the hostess must be, or must act like, a woman; the hostess must treat the customer as a superior and tend to his various desires; the service, while alluding to sex, cannot proceed to genital penetration or oral sex; and the service is conducted primarily at the level of conversation.” (1994: Kindle location 175)

293 Japanese expression “kuchi no warui onna”—a “woman with a dirty mouth”—a label that is far from flattering, and which comes from the use of words classified as distinctly male: omae (you), kuu instead of taberu (eat), the more or less accurate use of a harsh Kansai dialect and that of swear words (kuso— shit, fuck). 2) a second category is that of women who got married and no longer work in the mizu shobai. Once the decision or the opportunity to have what would be called a “normal” life arises, most of them take formal language classes in order to be able to speak proper Japanese and get a day job, or simply be able to attend events at their children’s schools.

At a first glance, it is easy to make a brutal distinction: the women in the first category are vulgar, engage in dubious activities, are undoubtedly immoral and should be shunned, while those in the latter have managed to redeem themselves and assume the role society expects them to have. I cannot say with certainty whether the general perspective in Japan is as harsh as this, but I know it is so in Romania. When it comes to attitudes towards race, ethnicity, or sexual orientation, Romania and Japan, despite not having much of a historical background in common, tend to share similarly obsolete tendencies. In a study from 2008, the Romanian researcher Laura Surdu shows that “77,9% of the Romanian population sees the Roma people as unreliable, dirty, lazy and prone to stealing. Education, occupation and income are the elements which, through their low level, project a stigma on the Roma population.6” (2010: 58) My Romanian informants in Japan do not all come from the Roma community, but those who do are acutely aware of it and many of them stated in the beginning of our conversations: “You should know that I am a gypsy.” Discriminatory tendencies continue to be obvious in Romanian society; in September 2015, a Romanian newspaper published an article praising a high school student who had been accepted into five British institutions of higher education7. Which sounds like a positive incident until you see the headline, which states that the student in question is of Roma ethnicity. In other words, despite being a poor gypsy, she somehow managed to be smart. The stigma these women bear is hard to forget, even if (or particularly because) they now live in a completely different culture. Another informant, when invited to an event for the Romanian community in Osaka, showed reticence: “I’d like to go, but there will be so many smart people there, university professors, what am I going to talk about?” As Inkeles and Rossi (1956) showed, occupational prestige scales of different countries are highly correlated, the hostess job being stigmatized both in Romania and Japan, although at different levels. “Cultural differences” have no effect on prestige judgments.

6 Author’s translation. 7 http://adevarul.ro/locale/botosani/perla-tiganilor-botosani-geniala-admisa-5- universitati-top-marea-britanie-parasita-mama-blamata-toti-invatat-cucerit-lumea- 1_55a52cb4f5eaafab2c91bdaa/index.html (retrieved on 2015/09/03)

294 The subjects of my study enter a highly different culture to do a job that is not very highly regarded, and their lack of knowledge of the culture and linguistic skills makes them once again an object of discrimination. A closer analysis of the situation clearly shows that the Japanese language they use is not an indicator that they are vulgar, stupid or unworthy (adjectives that are often used to pass judgment on such women in various social instances), but simply a result of the environment. Without access to educational tools, they use the only accessible way to learn a language: imitation, and without proper explanations (which most customers are not willing to offer—the customer is there to feel superior, as emphasized by anthropologist Anne Allison), it may take years until they learn that a certain word should not be used by women. And language is the first and foremost barrier when it comes to adjusting to a new culture. When responding to my questionnaire, all of the subjects, without exception, said that what they did not like about Japanese culture was the “people’s character”, whom they defined as “cold”, “impossible to read”, “dishonest”, “impossible to make friends with.8” Prejudice exists in every society and it is difficult to avoid or overcome when one belongs to what is perceived as a group lacking prestige. One of my Japanese informants (male) told me bluntly that “a hostess (regardless of nationality) should never marry a customer, because she will always be treated like an object bought and paid for.” Interviews and conversations with some of these women show that this is indeed the case: those who married their former customers, although enjoying financial security, are subject to unequal treatment in their own homes, many being continuously reproached for not being able to cook proper Japanese food, speak proper Japanese or act as they are supposed to in Japanese society. During a discussion with four Romanian women, I witnessed an outburst from the daughter of one of them (aged 7): “Stop speaking Romanian! Why are you speaking Romanian? Romanian is a stupid language!” Our research started at a Romanian-owned bar located in Namba, the southern part of Osaka, whose clientele is largely composed of Romanian women who work as hostesses in nearby establishments. Crystal Bar, the community which initially represented the subject of my research, appears now as a survival mechanism: after hours, Romanian hostesses gather in a bar owned by a Romanian man to be themselves, no longer subject to judgment and criticism. Like in the case of another night community I researched together with my wife, this after midnight happiness is short-lived, but absolutely necessary. For these women, no matter how alienated they feel in Japan, there is no returning home, at least not until they have acquired a husband and achieved some kind of financial stability (which would compensate for the “prostitution” stigma they will continue to be branded with), and thus they try to create a safe haven at Crystal Bar. Those who are married can no longer spend a night outside, so they create a

8 On the other hand, Joy Hendry notes that the Japanese have “a tendency to describe foreigners as ‘strange’, ‘dirty’ or even ‘stupid’, since their assumptions about the world are different.” (2013: 41) In my own experience, globalization has managed to positively affect this perception, but the stereotypes persist.

295 similar community on Facebook; cooking groups, most of the time, where they share recipes for Japanese food (trying to be good wives), housekeeping advice and complaints about how difficult it is to make friends in this country. And when the first question a foreigner in Japan is asked is “Why did you come to Japan?”, making friends becomes indeed a seemingly impossible task.

REFERENCES: 1. Allison, A. 1994. Nightwork. Sexuality, Pleasure, and Corporate Masculinity in a Tokyo Hostess Club, The University of Chicago Press, Kindle edition 2. Hendry, J. 2013. Understanding Japanese Society, Routledge 2013 3. Inkeles, A. & Rossi, P. H. 1956. National Comparisons of Occupational Prestige, American Journal of Sociology, Vol. 61, No. 4, pp. 329-339 4. Link, B. G. & Phelan, J. C. 2001. Conceptualizing Stigma, Annual Review of Sociology, Vol. 27, pp. 363-385 5. Surdu, L. 2010. Mecanismele de construcție și deconstrucție a stigmatizării în cazul romilor din România, Revista Calitatea Vieții, pp. 51-70

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